MMA WOLF 
 
BANCROFT 
 LIBRARY 
 
 <- 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 CAUF. F1CT1QH 
 COLLES1IDH 
 NOT FCH USE 
 
A PRODIGAL IN LOVE 
 
 H 
 
 BY 
 
 EMMA WOLF 
 
 AUTHOR OF "OTHER THINGS BEING EQUAL' 
 
 "As wind along the waste, 
 I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing " 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 1 894 
 

 Copyright, 1894, by HARPER & BROTHERS. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
TKIE P/,//CR(5FT UE 
 
 A PRODIGAL IN LOVE 
 
 CHAPTER I :;. t J . j J \ J V ' 
 
 " You will grant," said Brunton, as they paused be- 
 fore Rembrandt's " Head of a Boy," " that these trans- 
 parencies of the flesh are marvellously acquired and nat- 
 ural. The color upon the cheeks seems almost to waver 
 with life. You" 
 
 He stopped abruptly, conscious that his companion's 
 attention was directed in another quarter. Following 
 his gaze, he saw that it rested upon a trio moving 
 toward the great Millet at the farther end of the room. 
 Brunton leaned lightly upon the hand-rail with a look of 
 expectant pleasure in his quiet eyes. 
 
 The two girls hanging upon either arm of the young 
 woman seemed, despite their animation, to be deferring 
 their opinions to hers. She was undeniably noticeable, 
 though her attire was dark and extremely simple. She 
 was tall, and with a round, mature figure which she car- 
 ried with unconscious stateliness. A black straw hat 
 rested upon her mass of gold braids and shaded the pale 
 ivory hue of her face. Her expression was deep and 
 thoughtful ; the air of youthful deference which the girls 
 evinced appeared in natural keeping with the strong per- 
 
?HAft%i rWVi 
 
 sonality which marked her. As she turned to speak to a 
 distinguished -looking old gentleman who had accosted 
 them, the girls dropped their hold, and, wending their 
 way through the crowd, made a hurried dash toward the 
 picture before which Brunton and his companion still 
 stood. 
 
 " Oh, Geoffrey !" they exclaimed, standing still at 
 1 - '. '." sig.bt if t^o farmer. 
 
 * * * * V,y^ e yanleci^to get another look at this lovely boy 
 : :':,'; 'Jje'forfr we .leave,'"*' continued the younger, a tall school- 
 girl, with a warm, animated face and voice, " so we left 
 Constance for a minute while she talks to Mr. Glynn. 
 We're in love with him, aren't we, Grace ?" 
 
 " With whom, Edith, the boy or Mr. Glynn ?" asked 
 Brunton, looking with friendly amusement from her 
 bright face to the gentler one of her sister. 
 
 " With the boy," answered Grace, a shy smile dim- 
 pling her mouth. " His cheeks and lips are as soft and 
 flushed as if he had just had a nap. He looks so kiss- 
 able." 
 
 " That expresses it better eh, Kenyon ? This is Miss 
 Grace, and this Miss Edith Herriott Mr. Kenyon, girls." 
 
 They looked up with rosy cheeks to acknowledge the 
 salutation of the tall stranger. 
 
 " Am I possibly speaking to the cousins of Severn 
 Scott ?" he asked in a full, deep voice, his dark, glowing 
 face holding them fascinated. 
 
 " Why, yes !" Edith bubbled forth, delightedly. " And 
 are you can you be Hall Kenyon ?" 
 
 " Oh, Edith," expostulated the quieter girl, flushing 
 over her sister's irrepressibility. The stranger smiled, 
 showing his handsome white teeth. 
 
"You have guessed it," he said, courteously. "Mr. 
 Brunton wished to confute some of my Eastern esti- 
 mates of the Far West, so he brought me in to see your 
 loan exhibition. I'm moving slowly in the direction of 
 your residence as per promise to Scott." 
 
 " We shall be glad," returned Grace, with shy pleas- 
 ure ; and, as Edith plucked her by the sleeve, she nodded 
 swiftly and darted toward the entrance, where they 
 joined their former companion and passed on out. 
 
 " That was an unexpected flash," remarked Kenyon, 
 moving slowly on with Brunton. " I intended calling on 
 Miss Herriott to-night. Have you ever noticed how a 
 contemplated action will evolve something associated 
 with it just before the consummation ? Oh, by the way, 
 can you tell me who was that young woman with 
 them ?" 
 
 " That was their sister, Miss Herriott." 
 
 " Ah !" After an indistinct pause he rejoined, "An un- 
 usually beaut handsome woman. Do you know her ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I am their legal adviser." 
 
 They walked from picture to picture, and finally came 
 out of the warm rooms into the crisp spring atmosphere, 
 and turned briskly up Montgomery Street. 
 
 " I've heard a great deal of these Herriotts from Scott," 
 pursued Kenyon, suiting his long, nervous stride to Brun- 
 ton's leisurely gait. " Their history is quite unique, I 
 think. The father killed himself, did he not?" 
 
 " Exactly ; and without reason. He was a strangely 
 excitable man, and lost his head at a sign of disaster. 
 Once imbued with an idea, he was not to be stopped in 
 his course. His individuality might be described as the 
 Chinaman expressed the locomotion of a cable-car : ' No 
 
pushee, no pullee, go like hellee.' He had made an un- 
 wise speculation in grain not, however, at all ruinous 
 and, through overlooking two significant ciphers, he sent 
 a bullet through his head." 
 
 " I've heard it all before a somewhat selfish perform- 
 ance for the father of a large family." 
 
 " There was no egoism in the act. The egoist is, at 
 worst, thoughtful. He had lost his balance entirely ; he 
 was practically insane." 
 
 " His daughter does not impress one as having inher- 
 ited the tendency." 
 
 " You refer to Constance Miss Herriott. She is quite 
 different, by virtue of her position the guardian, you 
 know, of the family. But Herriott certainly perpetuated 
 himself in one or two of the younger children. Where 
 are you going?" 
 
 They had reached the corner of Pine Street, and Ken- 
 yon came to an abrupt stand-still. 
 
 " I promised to meet Joscelyn up here at his club at 
 four o'clock. I'll be at your office without fail to-mor- 
 row to see about that title, if no other inclination inter- 
 venes." He laughed lightly as he moved off. " Well, so 
 - long." 
 
 With a nod the two men separated. 
 
 Kenyon would have more thoroughly appreciated 
 Brunton's characterization had he been a witness to the 
 little scene enacted in Eleanor Herriott's bedroom at 
 about half-past eight that evening. She had been dress- 
 ing for her first ball, and the children sat waiting in eager 
 , expectation. 
 
 As she moved into view there was a long sigh of ad- 
 miration. The Herriotts' admiration for one another was 
 
quite undisguised ; they expressed it with an utter disre- 
 gard as to what others might think of their family fa- 
 naticism. They were, however, equally frank with their 
 disapproval, being heedlessly imprudent in pronouncing 
 words which rushed to their lips on the impulse of an 
 impression. Honest praise, however, seldom hurts ; like 
 a pleasant cordial, it sends a grateful tingle through 
 the coldest blood. 
 
 Edith, perched on the foot of the bed, clapped her 
 hands in applause. 
 
 "Oh, doesn't she look lovely ! Oh, Eleanor, I wish I 
 were grown up !" 
 
 " Look at her hair ; it's a heap of fire-flies there with 
 the light on it, her cheeks match, and her eyes are torch- 
 es ; the men will light their wits at them. She looks as 
 though she would burst into flame. She'll surely be the 
 belle." 
 
 "Keep still, you silly girls. Constance, put a pin in 
 that rose in my hair, or I'll dance it out. There ! Now 
 while I put on my gloves you can give me praise galore ; 
 I like it." 
 
 She stood, a young, graceful figure in white satin, un- 
 der the chandelier. The deep red rose in her bronze 
 hair, the glow upon her cheek and lip, the restless, flash- 
 ing gray eyes charmed as does a flash-light in a dark 
 night. In the pause which followed her words, she turned 
 to Constance in demure, laughing expectancy. 
 
 " Well, Constance ?" 
 
 "Beautiful, dear," came the ready answer, in the 
 low, tender voice. " I feel very proud of you to- 
 night." 
 
 The younger girl threw her a kiss and swept her a deep 
 
courtesy. Then she turned to the quiet little figure stand- 
 ing with her arm around Constance's waist. 
 
 " Want to see me, Nan ?" 
 
 " Yes ; just stoop a little." The tall, flower-like head 
 bent within the child's reach, and Nan's fairy-light fin- 
 gers moved from the rose in the hair, over the exquisite 
 face, touched the slim young shoulders, and passed over 
 the simple fashioning of the gown. This was Nan's 
 sight. " You must look like a tiger-lily," she said, as she 
 finished her inspection. 
 
 " Take care, she'll spring at you," cried Edith, from 
 her perch. " She does look sort of tigerish, doesn't she, 
 Constance ?" 
 
 " I'm not a bit fierce, Edith, to-night." 
 
 " No, but you're wild." 
 
 "That's not fair," put in Grace, critically regarding 
 her sister askance. " You are only too bright-looking. 
 You should go veiled ; you hurt people's eyes, like the 
 sun. Catch a little of Constance's moonlight beauty." 
 
 "Moonlight fiddlestick," returned Constance with a 
 laugh, as she straightened a loop of ribbon on Eleanor's 
 shoulder. " Don't dance yourself to a bundle of rags, 
 Eleanor. You do so exhaust yourself with enjoyment. 
 Live to repeat the tale." 
 
 " Of my gown ? It will get soiled at the first round. 
 Is that the carriage ? Mr. Vassault said they would be 
 here before nine, as he is one of the Reception Committee. 
 Look and tell me, Edith." 
 
 " Bring us your favors," they cried, while Constance 
 hooked the soft white wrap about her, " and be sure 
 to be the belle. Good-night ! I hear Mr. Yassault's 
 voice in the hall. Have a good time !" 
 
" Hush, girls," remonstrated Constance ; " you're mak- 
 ing an unconscionable noise." And she hurried down 
 after the white-robed figure. 
 
 " No, I won't come in, thank you, Miss Herriott," said 
 Vassault, with a good-humored laugh at her invitation. 
 " My wife says she will never forgive you if you keep 
 me talking, and I don't want you to incur her august 
 displeasure. Ready, Miss Eleanor? And looking as 
 lovely as ever. I'll see that she accepts none but eligi- 
 ble favors, Miss Herriott, and that she bestows her own 
 in official corners. We'll see you at Mrs. Glynn's recep- 
 tion next week, I hope." 
 
 " Perhaps. Mrs. Glynn takes a refusal as a personal 
 affront. Good -night. Thank you for taking care of 
 Eleanor. Enjoy yourself, dear." 
 
 She closed the door softly behind them, lowered the 
 gas, which was flaring at full height, and ran quickly up- 
 stairs. 
 
 " Let us clear up this litter," she said, entering the 
 large, untidy room where the children were still congre- 
 gated. " Grace, hang this gown away, will you ? Edith, 
 put those things straight in the bureau drawers, and close 
 them while " 
 
 " Call Betty," advised Edith, with a yawn. 
 
 "Betty is tired, I suppose. Here, Nan, roll up this 
 ribbon, dearie, while I pick up that mess of curl-papers 
 and rose leaves from the dressing-table. Hush ! is that 
 Marjorie calling?" She stood still and listened. "Yes; 
 I'll be back in a minute, girls." 
 
 She moved swiftly into the dimly-lighted next room. 
 The child sitting up in bed looked cross and tired. 
 
 "What is wrong, little one?" she asked, sitting down 
 
8 
 
 on the bed with a scarcely perceptible movement of 
 weariness. 
 
 "Everybody makes such a noise," whined the child, 
 " and Ede came in and pulled my hair, and I can't 
 sleep." 
 
 " Lie down, darling, and I'll lie beside you." 
 
 The child snuggled down in her arms, put up her 
 hand to stroke her face, and so dropped off to slumber. 
 
 In the next room the talk and laughter were unabated. 
 
 " Eleanor has all the fun," grumbled Edith, in a mo- 
 ment of reaction. " She goes off like a princess, and 
 leaves us to clear up after her as though we were her ser- 
 vants." She gave a footstool an impatient kick. " Leave 
 those things alone, Grace. Betty will pick them up in 
 the morning." 
 
 "You mean Constance," said Nan, from the lounge. 
 " Constance won't go to bed knowing the room is in dis- 
 order. She always says something might happen in the 
 night, and if strangers chanced to come in and found a 
 frowsy room she would feel her left ear burning." 
 
 Grace moved slowly about, picking up the scattered 
 articles. There was a gentle, somnolent ease in her 
 large though girlish figure, a dreamy thoughtfulness in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " Constance won't rest," put in Edith, conclusively. 
 " She divides her days into pigeon-holes, and is busy 
 keeping them filled. I know what I'd do if I were in her 
 place." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Let things run themselves ; I've learned something 
 about momentum. But Constance thinks she has to 
 steer a rolling ball, and gets tired running after it." 
 
" Dear Constance !" murmured Nan, with a resentful 
 flush in her delicate cheek. 
 
 " Poor Constance !" sighed Grace, gathering up a 
 handful of fallen rose leaves from the table. " I wonder 
 if she feels as old as a mother of five girls does." 
 
 " Or a father," supplemented Edith. , " It's a good 
 thing, girls, that Constance is a big woman ; otherwise 
 she'd have been a lean, sour old maid long ago. How 
 old is Constance, Grace ? Thirty ?" 
 
 " Why, no. She's only twenty-six." 
 
 " Only five years older than Eleanor ! You'd never 
 think Eleanor was only twenty-one yesterday the lucky 
 thing ! I wish I were in her place, and going down to 
 see Geoffrey to-morrow about my share of mamma's 
 legacy. There goes the bell ! Who can it be at this 
 hour of the night ?" 
 
 With abrupt curiosity she tiptoed into the hall, and, 
 catching sight of the maid with a card in her hand, she 
 followed her into Constance's room. 
 
 They both hurried over to the bed, and looked down 
 for a second at Constance asleep, with the sleeping child 
 in her arms. There was something so peaceful in her 
 attitude that the maid drew back. But Edith had no 
 such qualms. 
 
 " Wake up, Constance," she whispered, shaking her 
 ruthlessly. The girl released her arms from the child, 
 and sprang softly to her feet, awake on the instant. 
 
 " What is it ?" she asked, in a hushed undertone, mov- 
 ing toward the door. " Something has happened to 
 Nan" 
 
 " No, no," laughed Edith ; " it's only a visitor. Give 
 her the card, Betty." She peered over her sister's 
 
10 
 
 shoulder in the dim light. "'Hall Kenyon,'" she read, 
 slowly. " Severn's friend, Constance ; we saw him this 
 afternoon, you know. Hurry down." 
 
 Constance swiftly smoothed her hair and shook out 
 her gown. She paused a moment to collect her rudely- 
 awakened senses, and went down-stairs. 
 
 The stranger stood with his back turned toward the 
 door. It was a broad, straight, young back, the brown, 
 columnar neck supporting a powerful, somewhat massive, 
 head. 
 
 " Mr. Kenyon," she said, softly. 
 
 He turned with a start. Her first impression was of 
 a flash of white teeth and the glow of a dark young face 
 as she held out her hand. 
 
 "This is an unpardonably late hour," he said, swiftly; 
 " I was unexpectedly detained. But as I had determined 
 to come to-night, I came, nevertheless. Scott said my 
 name would not be entirely unfamiliar to you." He 
 seated himself opposite to her, his hazel eyes resting 
 upon her with startling brilliancy. 
 
 " His letters have always been full of your name," she 
 replied, " and now they quite overflow with your fame. 
 Severn is such an unselfish fellow ; he always wishes the 
 world to have a share of his good-fortune. I feel as 
 though I had been a sort of spiritual companion with 
 you on many of your summer jaunts and yachting tours. 
 Is Severn well ?" 
 
 " Quite well," he answered, an intense pleasure speak- 
 ing in his voice. He had wished, at her first words, 
 that the tender, peaceful voice would fail to pause 
 that he might grow accustomed to its grave music 
 as to the uncommon personality of the woman herself. 
 
11 
 
 She was built in the large, easy lines of the great goddess 
 round, full bust, and curves of quiet strength. A 
 wealth of pale, lustreless, golden braids crowned her, the 
 matte complexion of her colorless, dispassionate face 
 being in unusual combination with her hair. Her broad 
 gray eyes looked across at him with the easy directness 
 of truth. In her quiet, experienced pose, in the repose 
 of her firm mouth, there was not a suggestion of emo- 
 tiveness. And Kenyon felt himself speaking less exu- 
 berantly than was his wont. 
 
 " He is quite well," he repeated. " Scott seems to 
 keep well through sheer bravado. He pays tribute to 
 no power outside himself, and one can always count upon 
 his bobbing up serenely in club, wood, or office, in spite 
 of the indisposition of weather or business. He is a man 
 who lives for the day, you know." 
 
 " Yes," smiled Constance, " he is a cheery pessi- 
 mist. Do you think he has ever thought of settling 
 down to a home and fireplace of his own?" 
 
 " I think so," replied Kenyon, with unexpected warmth, 
 meeting her eyes with a flash of sudden insight. Con- 
 stance felt the stain of color rising to her temples. The 
 fingers of her white hand closed tightly over the arms of 
 her chair. She had given little heed to his words; the 
 man himself disturbed her oddly. His luminous hazel 
 eyes, under straight, fine brows, struck her as discon- 
 certingly intuitive ; his nose was finely chiselled ; his 
 mouth, unshaded by a mustache, left an impression of 
 wilful sensuousness, in striking contradiction to the 
 broad, firm chin. The lack of beard upon his face lent 
 to it an air of boyishness which the impulsive color in 
 his olive cheek strongly augmented. The glowing wine 
 
12 
 
 of summer emanated from every inch of his wholesome 
 physique. 
 
 " Why do you think so?" she asked, quietly. 
 
 " Oh, well," he laughed, throwing back his head as a 
 child sometimes tosses back a refractory curl from his 
 forehead, "ever since his return from his Western trip 
 he has seemed to simmer." 
 
 " Simmer ?" she repeated, questioningly. 
 
 " Exactly. As a pot, set back after boiling, browses 
 over its recent exploit. It is a sort of retrospective calm 
 which bodes something." 
 
 " He was tired, I suppose. Did he describe all the 
 wonders of the coast ?" 
 
 " No ; he recommended me to a guide-book for 
 that. He was not very discursive, except on one 
 point." 
 
 Constance regarded him expectantly. She knew from 
 the animation in his face that the point in question would 
 be divulged. 
 
 " The Herriotts," he answered, at once. " Fact is, 
 Miss Herriott, I know you all from A to Z, in every mood, 
 tense, number, and person." 
 
 " That was not fair of Severn." 
 
 " It was his unselfish friendliness again the desire to 
 share, you know. He had you all labelled, and when he 
 called you by name I immediately knew the character of 
 whom he spoke." 
 
 " What were the labels ? May you repeat them ?" 
 
 " Certainly. They were Con Eleanor, the beautiful 
 witch ; Grace, the dreamer ; Edith (pardon me), the lit- 
 tle devil ; Nan, the dove ; and Marjorie, the lamb. Have 
 I them straight?" 
 
13 
 
 " Quite according to Severn's cousinly reckoning. 
 Are you going to make a long stay, Mr. Kenyon ?" 
 
 " That depends on ray lawyers and inclination. You 
 know I came out to settle up an inheritance of my late 
 uncle, Seth Cope." 
 
 " I did not know. Do you speak of Seth Cope, who 
 used to live in that pretty cottage over at Sausalito ?" 
 
 " Yes ; that cottage is part of the legacy of which I am 
 trying to dispose, meanwhile growing attached to it by 
 living over there in its rose wilderness. Do you know 
 Sausalito, Miss Herriott ?" 
 
 " From base to summit. We lived over there one 
 whole summer and autumn. It is just opposite the Rev. 
 Dr. Granniss's place, is it not?" 
 
 " Yes ; he and his wife have proven very companion- 
 able and neighborly. Do you know them?" 
 
 " They were very dear friends of my mother. I know 
 them well. But I should think you would find the quiet 
 distracting after the friction of New York." 
 
 " I should if I were unoccupied. But it seems to have 
 tumbled upon my mood most opportunely." 
 
 "Does Pegasus like the herbage?" she questioned, 
 spontaneously. 
 
 He was startled at the divination, and flashed one of 
 his bright, restless looks over her again. " He seems to 
 thrive," he returned, with an almost shy flush. " I am 
 breaking him into a new gait." 
 
 " I liked the old one." 
 
 He made a military salute with his hand, and rejoined, 
 hurriedly, " He cut too many capers. Got tired of them. 
 I have struck into a long narrow lane, and he must walk 
 sedately.'' 
 
14 
 
 " I think that will be impossible," she said, with a 
 kindly shake of her head. " The grass springs under his 
 feet too ardently. His movement must be swift and to 
 the fray." 
 
 "I hope not. My ambition lies in another direction. 
 I am writing a novel." 
 
 " Are you ? It will be good, I am sure." 
 
 " You are kind to be so prejudiced. I hope your 
 prognostications will be fulfilled. But its success has 
 met with an unexpected barrier." 
 
 How ?" 
 
 " In my windfall. The muse, you know, flies from 
 affluence as from the pest. She is more at home in a 
 garret or " 
 
 " Or," she supplemented as he paused, " in the throes 
 of a great sorrow or struggle. Then you must become 
 unhappy to become happy. Even your heaven knows 
 its purgatory. I advise you to stay out of heaven in 
 consideration of your preface." 
 
 " No," he said, a sudden stubborn intolerance steeling 
 mouth and eyes, " no." 
 
 They sat in silence for a few seconds, and then Ken- 
 yon arose with a start. " I have stayed too late," he said, 
 standing tall and powerful before her. " But I wish to 
 come again to see the children." 
 
 " Do," she responded, rising, and putting her hand 
 into his. " Will you come Friday night ? That is 
 the night on which they put on all sorts of fresh res- 
 olutions and good manners their weekly moral clean- 
 ing." 
 
 " I have heard of some of your institutions," he said, 
 still holding her hand, and letting his eyes travel over the 
 
15 
 
 passionless peace of her face and figure. " Also about 
 the singing." 
 
 " And your violin?" she asked, quickly. " Have you 
 brought that with you ?" 
 
 " What do you know of my violin ?" he demanded, 
 with curious brusqueness, 
 
 " Nothing -as yet," she faltered, in surprise. " Ex- 
 cept through Severn," 
 
 " I'll, introduce you Friday night," he said, with in- 
 consistent lightness. " Will the children be up ?" 
 
 " You must come to dine at seven. Can you ?" 
 
 "Thank you, I can. Good-night." 
 
 She lingered a moment in the moonlight after he had 
 run down the steps, and then returned aimlessly to the 
 drawing - room. She stood with her hand on a table 
 without moving. Presently she raised her head with a 
 long sigh. "He is a very handsome m boy," she 
 thought, strangely. Then, as if by analogy, she walked 
 over and looked into the great mirror. " I am old," she 
 murmured, gazing at herself drearily "I am an old 
 woman." She stood for a space, seeing only the loss, 
 none of the wonderful womanly charm, ^ And yet," she 
 reflected, " he that Hall Kenyon must be years older 
 than I. Severn is over thirty they are nearly of an 
 age. Bah ! what a fool I am ! I suppose it is his 
 bright exuberance which makes me regret mine to- 
 night." She moved with an impatient gesture, and 
 turned off the light. 
 
 She mounted the steps slowly, and entered the large 
 room where Marjorie slept. The taper had burned out, 
 and the room was steeped in moonlight. She moved 
 noiselessly over to the bed, and looked down at the sweet, 
 
16 
 
 flushed face of the sleeping child. Unconsciously she 
 brushed back the clustering curls from the brow, and 
 drew the coverlet more closely abouf, the little figure. 
 Then she turned slowly, and walked over to the 
 window. 
 
 She sat down and looked out at the night. The moon 
 advanced with slow, regal steps along the path of tur- 
 quoise, in all the grandeur of loneliness. The spire of 
 the church seemed to bar its way a sentinel arresting a 
 spirit. It appeared wan to Constance, despite its radi- 
 ance. The face looked like a woman's. She had seen, 
 that afternoon, a picture something like it called " Pe- 
 nelope," by Cabanel. The woman, with great wan eyes, 
 stands looking over the water it is significant that she 
 looks over the water ; in that fact, thought Constance, 
 Cabanel painted Penelope's hope. Some poet once said 
 that the sea-gods quit their sunken palaces by night and 
 seat themselves on promontories to gaze out over the 
 waves. Mortals do otherwise ; night holds the future 
 in dreams upon its bosom. Without a past, the pres- 
 ent is a child ; without a future, it is an adult grown 
 blind. Constance's present was not a child ; neither had 
 it grown quite blind. She often rose from her depths 
 and looked beyond ; but oftener her gaze was backward. 
 In retrospect lay her strength. 
 
 Six years before she had been a gay, laughing girl. 
 One day Robert Herriott, as has been said, in a frenzy 
 of despondency, sent a pistol-shot through his brain, and 
 blotted out the brightness of those nearest him who were 
 old enough to realize its import. It subdued Constance 
 as a thunder-bolt hushes the moment which follows ; it 
 sent into life a frail blossom before the world was ready 
 
17 
 
 for it, and snapped asunder the erstwhile powerful heart 
 which had been mated to his. 
 
 The mother's battle for life was a desperate one, but 
 she lost. And, dying, she called her daughter to her. 
 
 " Constance," she said, in a weak, supplicating voice, 
 " I must die, and I cannot." 
 
 The girl gazed at the despairing face dumbly. 
 
 " Constance," whispered the mother, pleadingly, 
 " there are all those children." 
 
 " I am here," answered the girl, pityingly. 
 
 " But, darling, there is Nan and the baby." 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 The woman's eyes gazed at the pale-faced girl with a 
 wordless message. As long as she lived Constance Her- 
 riott could never forget that look. 
 
 " I am here, mother," she said again, in hushed solem- 
 nity. Upon the face of the dying mother there flashed 
 an eager light ; she was waiting. Finally the answer 
 came : 
 
 " I shall never leave them, mother." And over the 
 face of the dying mother there dawned a peace that 
 passeth understanding, but which stretched from the 
 dead to the living in a tie everlasting. And as long as 
 she lived Constance Herriott would never forget that 
 look. 
 
 So, when the grave man had asked her for the gift of 
 her young womanhood, it had been easy to answer, " I 
 have only my friendship left to give you, Geoffrey ; the 
 rest is given to these children." 
 
 And that was all. The young, inexperienced girl 
 slowly developed into the motherly woman. The chil- 
 dren turned to her as the flowers to the sun, and she was 
 
18 
 
 always there to supply the need. Her arras grew strong- 
 er they had much to support ; her heart grew braver 
 it had much to contend with ; her brain grew manly it 
 had much to adjust ; heart and form of woman, will and 
 execution of man one of necessity's curious combina- 
 tions. Robert Herriott's miscalculation had unnecessarily 
 warped many lives. There was enough left to keep the 
 bodies in comfort the one saving clause in the burden 
 upon the young shoulders. 
 
 There had never been a day when the shoulders had 
 fretted. But to-night, as she looked back at the face of 
 her vanished youth, she shuddered violently, and laid her 
 head against the cold window-pane as if for comfort. 
 
 She suddenly noticed that it had grown strangely still 
 in the street below. The cable had ceased to whirr. Her 
 hands were cold and numb. They grew slowly warm as 
 she lay awake beside the sleeping child. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 ELEANOR HERRIOTT waited in a corner of Brunton's 
 outer office with a feeling of intolerant impatience. The 
 quick passage of men in and out of the private rooms, 
 the apparent absorption in business which hurried them 
 to and fro, the rapid interchange of greeting, and careless, 
 almost unnoticed exits, all excited her through their at- 
 mosphere of serious purpose. She was too much of a 
 coquette to be unmindful of the swift glances in her di- 
 rection, but too conservative a woman to be entirely 
 pleased to pay the popular tax which beauty levies upon 
 its possessors. 
 
 She was finally admitted into Brunton's presence, and 
 entered with a sigh of relief. 
 
 " Ah, Eleanor," he said, putting out a hand across his 
 desk by way of acknowledgment, but continuing to 
 write for a few seconds, his fine, strong face bent closely 
 over tbe document. There was a suspicion of elegance 
 about Geoffrey Brunton which stood out markedly in his 
 uncompromising law - office. Eleanor could not decide 
 to-day whether the impression was supplied by the sweep 
 of his brown mustache or by the bit of cape-jasmine in 
 his button-hole. 
 
 " Sit down," he said, presently, removing his hand 
 from hers, and carefully placing a blotter over his work. 
 " We have a little business to settle, have we not ?" He 
 raised a pair of penetrating blue eyes with the strained 
 
20 
 
 scrutiny of the near-sighted. This same near-sightedness 
 was a remarkable softener to an otherwise somewhat 
 severe visage. 
 
 " Let me see," he said, musingly, " when did you 
 come into your legal majority ?" 
 
 " The day before yesterday." 
 
 " Good." He leaned across to a box, and extracted a 
 packet of papers. He quickly ran them over, and select- 
 ing one, handed it to her. While she was putting up 
 her veil, in order to read more clearly, he continued : 
 
 "You will understand the provisions from the words 
 of the will, I think. Read it, and let me know whether 
 you get a thorough comprehension of its details." 
 
 After reading it slowly and carefully, she met his eyes 
 with a slight flush of delight. 
 
 " I gather from it," she announced with precision, as 
 though curbing her tongue, " that as each of my mother's 
 daughters attains her twenty -first birthday, she is to have 
 the interest of seven thousand dollars paid to her month- 
 ly, which she can use as she sees fit ; or, should she 
 marry before, or whenever she does marry, the principal 
 shall be handed to her intact. Is that correct ?" 
 
 " Quite. But during these six years of your minority 
 the principal has accumulated to something like ten 
 thousand. This will give you a tidy little income for 
 notions and nonsense, as the family fund will continue 
 to provide for your necessities, as heretofore. So I sup- 
 pose you will want your pile of bank-bills every month." 
 
 " I do not know," responded the girl, coloring deeply. 
 She looked down at her slender gloved hands for a mo- 
 ment without speaking. Then, with a little self-conscious 
 laugh, she looked up into the face of her friend. 
 
" Geoffrey," she ventured, " could that clause about 
 handing over the principal intact be broken?" 
 
 He suddenly remembered an amusing incident con- 
 nected with Eleanor Herriott's inherited deplorable rash- 
 ness. She was a child at the time of its happening, 
 walking down -town with her mother, whose well -filled 
 purse she carried in her little hand. As they entered a 
 large dry-goods establishment Mrs. Herriott asked the 
 child for the purse. 
 
 "T haven't it, mamma," she 'declared, excitedly; "I 
 gave it to a poor little boy who had no coat on, and only 
 rags for shoes. He looked so sick. I saw him while 
 you were looking in a show-window. Wasn't it lucky !" 
 
 Brunton regarded her at this moment with some con- 
 cern. 
 
 " How do you mean ?" he asked. " Come, we are not 
 at home, and cannot chat. What extravagance are you 
 contemplating ?" 
 
 " Well," she returned, tapping the floor nervously with 
 her foot, " the Vassaults are going to Europe next month, 
 and" 
 
 " And you wish to go with them ?" 
 
 "Oh, Geoffrey, it is such a chance !" 
 
 " But, my child, have you the means ?" 
 
 " Can't it be taken outright from my capital ?" 
 
 " It could with the consent of your guardian. What 
 does she say ?" 
 
 " I I have not spoken of it to Constance." 
 
 " Then there is no need in discussing it with me. 
 Why don't you ask Constance ?" 
 
 " You know how stubborn she is. Let her once take 
 a stand, and " 
 
Her complaining voice died into a wavering, indistinct 
 murmur. Brunton was regarding her coolly, critically, 
 with an intentness which she comprehended with annoy- 
 ance. 
 
 " Well," she insisted, " you must admit that no amount 
 of reasoning or alteration of conditions will make Con- 
 stance change front. A thing once true and just with 
 her is always true and just. You know that as well as I." 
 
 His slightly sallow skin showed a trace of pallor at the 
 girl's insinuating temerity. 
 
 " Nevertheless," he returned, coolly but carefully, " her 
 guidance has not led you astray as yet. Even though 
 you are of age, you will, I hope, trust to her maturer 
 judgment hi all serious undertakings." 
 
 " Why, Geoffrey !" she flashed a look of anger tow- 
 ard him, her voice vibrating uncontrollably as she spoke 
 " you know that Constance is our only one, father as 
 well as mother. Have I ever appeared refractory ? Don't 
 we all depend upon her approval in every action? Do 
 you think I consider myself sufficient just because I have 
 acquired a nominal independence !" 
 
 " That sounds sensible, Eleanor ! I only hope you will 
 stick to such colors. Then about this European plan 
 you are ready to rely on her decision ?" 
 
 She scratched at a spot of ink on the desk without 
 looking up. 
 
 " I want to go," said she, in a low voice ; after a few 
 seconds she raised her eyes defiantly " and I shall. You 
 can advance me the money, can't you ?" 
 
 " I can ; but without Constance's approval, I shall do 
 nothing of the sort. Still, why argue about it? Since 
 you are so anxious to- go^ why should Constance object ?" 
 
" Because she does not like Mrs. Vassault." 
 
 " Ah !" 
 
 She regarded him expectantly, but he vouchsafed no 
 further remark. He arose, put the mother's will back 
 into its compartment, and turned his tall, slightly stooped 
 figure toward her, waiting deferentially for her to move. 
 She arose perfunctorily, her teeth set tightly together. 
 
 " I suppose you will agree with Constance," she said. 
 "You generally do agree with her. But the money is 
 mine now, and I shall do with it what I wish, or some- 
 body will be sorry for interfering." 
 
 Brunton suddenly understood the meaning of the pur- 
 ple shadows which so often encircled Constance Herri- 
 ott's eyes. 
 
 " I am not your guardian," he said sternly " only your 
 lawyer, whom your sister has honored by intrusting with 
 other friendly matters. If you will stop to consider your 
 words, you will acknowledge that they sound not only 
 unlovely but childishly wicked toward your sister, to 
 whom you owe more than you can ever appreciate. Despite 
 your twenty-one years, you are like the child who says, 
 * Give me what I wish and I'll be good, but not other- 
 wise.' You " 
 
 " I am not a child, and that is where all the miscon- 
 ception lies. Credit me with a little judgment on my 
 own account. Constance is not infallible. Besides, a 
 chance like this does not offer itself every day to a girl 
 in my position, and since I desire to go so strongly, I 
 shall not allow a little personal prejudice on her part to 
 deter me." 
 
 She moved across the room toward the door, with her 
 head held high in defiance. Brunton, taking in the grace- 
 
ful figure more minutely than interest had hitherto im- 
 pelled him, recognized that it would take even more 
 strenuous arguments to move her than would be neces- 
 sary with her sister. Constance Herriott would have to 
 be convinced through her reason, Eleanor through the 
 sudden suasion of an overpowering moral impetus. When 
 the latter was in this condition she was, figuratively, deaf 
 and blind to any but her own perturbed sensations. 
 
 " Good-afternoon, Eleanor," said Brunton, holding out 
 his hand, which she did not notice, " I trust things will 
 shift themselves according to your pleasure." 
 
 " But you will not help me, I suppose." 
 
 " I shall talk the matter over with Constance Friday 
 night, when you can come to a better understanding of 
 the disposition of your resources. Don't fight with your 
 own shadow. Go home and be good, and probably you 
 will be happy." 
 
 He ended with a laugh. 
 
 "And have a dreary, flat old time. Thanks, I'm not 
 seeking such negative happiness. Good-bye." 
 
 His hand closed over hers on the knob. 
 
 " Take care, Eleanor," he admonished. 
 
 "Others can take care; I'll take something gayer." 
 
 She turned the knob sharply, and left him standing 
 looking after her quickly retreating figure with a feeling 
 of impotent anger. He was too intimately allied with 
 the Herriotts to be indifferent to such a revelation of 
 character. "Little termagant!" he apostrophized, the 
 vision of a quiet, womanly form rising beside its fever- 
 ishness like a piece of marble endurance. 
 
 Eleanor turned out of the office with a hot face and 
 knitted brows. Her pulses were hammering with wild 
 
25 
 
 displeasure. To be thwarted was a laceration at which, 
 in first moments, she tore rabidly. Contentment or sub- 
 mission were surgeons at whose methods she jeered. At 
 the risk of being called unamiable or unreasonable, she 
 gave her leanings full headway. The perpetually amiable 
 are fools, was her defensive corollary a sentiment born 
 more of vanity than of philosophy. 
 
 As she reached the corner of the passageway before 
 emerging into the hall proper, she paused to brush some 
 dust from the edge of her gown. At the same moment 
 a man, turning the L shortly, brushed sharply against 
 her bent figure, almost knocking her down. Eleanor stag- 
 gered against the wall, and looked up indignantly. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," exclaimed a full, contrite voice, 
 as the man stood bare-headed before her. " I trust I have 
 not hurt you." 
 
 Eleanor looked up with a feeling of bewilderment. 
 " No," she answered, oddly ; " it is nothing, I believe." 
 She turned to go, but a wrench of pain in her ankle de- 
 layed her. 
 
 " I am exceedingly sorry," he said, moving closer. 
 " Will you let me assist you down the stairs ? I am sure 
 you are in pain." 
 
 " It will pass," she returned, with a nod of dismissal, as 
 she moved on more slowly. " What a face !" she thought, 
 with a swift revulsion of feeling. " What a surprisingly 
 vivid face !" 
 
 By the time she reached the car the pain in her foot 
 had subsided. On entering a street-car she generally as- 
 sumed a preoccupied air, which her chance fellow-pas- 
 sengers would have described as haughty. It was her 
 own way of showing that exclusiveness is not always an 
 
outward fact ; that in a crowded public conveyance 
 Eleanor Harriott's spirit proper rode alone in its own 
 private carriage. Two Chinamen entered, arid seated 
 themselves with ease beside her ; Eleanor's face gave no 
 evidence of her inward shudder of repugnance. A bux- 
 om, bejewelled dame was reiterating, at full pitch, her in- 
 dignation over her friend's having paid her fare. A man 
 with a package of sausages was seated opposite her ; 
 Eleanor hated the odor of the very word sausage. Two 
 women were retailing, for the benefit of all hearers, sto- 
 ries of their household grievances and economies ; a 
 school-girl was giggling over the unsolicited information. 
 A man on the back platform was chewing tobacco. When 
 Eleanor got off at her corner her nerves were in the ruf- 
 fled state of the fretful porcupine. 
 
 There are days when, from the hour of rising to retir- 
 ing, every detail seems to rise in malicious anarchy to 
 desire and comfort. This was such a day for Eleanor. 
 When she reached the house, she found Edith leaning on 
 the gate. 
 
 " Let me pass," she commanded, crossly. 
 
 " Don't be in such a hurry," advised Edith, suavely. 
 " There is that in the drawing-room which truth forbids 
 me to call charming, but which is awaiting you impa- 
 tiently." 
 
 " Who is in there 2" 
 
 "The Plague." 
 
 " Mrs. Ferris ? Is Gertrude with her ?" 
 
 She is." 
 
 " Pshaw ! I suppose I shall have to go in. Edith, 
 will you move aside ? I am not in a mood to tolerate 
 your nonsense." 
 
" Your words are unnecessary evidence," admitted her 
 sister, allowing her to open the gate and pass in. 
 
 The Ferrises were just rising to go as she entered, but 
 sank back to chat a moment. Mrs. Ferris, an eagle-nosed, 
 ferret-eyed woman, with a lorgnon and an " air," passed 
 inspection over the new-comer's toilet, and allowed her to 
 move on to her daughter, a sweet-faced girl, while she 
 resumed her monologue. To entertain Mrs. Ferris was 
 to listen. 
 
 " Yes, as I was saying when Eleanor entered, Miss Her- 
 riott, a mother has 'more duties than she herself can 
 enumerate. The secret of my children's well-being lies 
 in the fact that I even sleep, as it were, with rny hand on 
 them. Unconsciously I direct their very dreams, and " 
 
 " Do they ever have the nightmare ?" interrupted Elea- 
 nor, softly. 
 
 " Figuratively speaking, never. I have often thought 
 of you, Miss Herriott, with your five girls, and wished I 
 could be of some real benefit to you. Now, for instance, 
 if you ever need a chaperon, say at a dinner, or a tea, or 
 any of the pretty little functions which you may under- 
 take for yourself or sisters, you can count on me at any 
 time." 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Ferris, but I have grown accus- 
 tomed to considering myself sedate enough to be the 
 children's chaperon, and they are certainly sufficiently 
 numerous to be mine." 
 
 " But, my dear girl, you know what prodding-forks and 
 microscopes are used on an unmarried woman's actions. 
 Now, for example merely for example, you know how 
 could you explain your very intimate relations with Mr. 
 Brunton to a suspicious stranger ?" 
 
28 
 
 " I never vouchsafe explanations to strangers. To my 
 friends my actions need no justification." 
 
 " Indeed, that is true. But Mr. Brunton, otherwise 
 so very hard to draw into polite society, is contin- 
 ually" 
 
 " Oh, mamma !" murmured Gertrude Ferris, with a 
 shamed face. 
 
 " My dear Gertrude, Miss Herriott understands that 
 my intentions are purely motherly." 
 
 " For whom ?" asked Eleanor, innocently. " Constance, 
 or" 
 
 " Really," broke in Constance, with an uneasy laugh, 
 " I have never supposed that I was such a cynosure, so I 
 have never posed. Everybody knows that Mr. Brunton 
 is our lawyer and a sort of friendly guardian of the 
 children, besides being a family friend ever since he 
 came to the city, more than twenty years ago. He was a 
 boy going to the university when I was a little toddler 
 of four or five. His father and mine had been old col- 
 lege-mates." 
 
 " Indeed ? How very interesting ! Those old friend- 
 ships grow quite romantic sometimes. It must make 
 you feel as though you had an elder brother." 
 
 Constance smiled her acquiescence. 
 
 " And now we must go," exclaimed Mrs. Ferris, bus- 
 tling up. " Come, Gertrude. Oh, by the way, Miss 
 Herriott, did I understand my Helen aright when she 
 said that you contemplated giving Grace a graduating 
 tea?" 
 
 " We spoke only of a sociable little afternoon for 
 some of her intimate school-mates something quite in- 
 formal and friendly." 
 
"I suppose you will have tete-a-tete tables and 
 music?" 
 
 " Oh no. We like our own round-table for general 
 hilarity and fun." 
 
 " Don't think of it, Miss Herriott not for a moment. 
 I speak from experience, and know that, notwithstanding 
 the size of your room, there is less trouble with small 
 tables. Take my advice " she was on the door-step by 
 this time " and profit by my experience. I shall be in 
 to assist you. Good-bye. No thanks necessary. I am 
 not a woman who believes in confining my whole inter- 
 est to my own. Good-bye." 
 
 Constance closed the door after them, and returned to 
 the drawing-room and Eleanor with a merry laugh. 
 
 "Well," remarked Eleanor, taking off her hat and 
 leaning back with an air of relief, " I should like to 
 choke that woman." 
 
 " You came very near being rude to her." 
 
 " Can't help it ; she makes me savage. Her only virt- 
 ue is that she is the mother of her daughter, and Ger- 
 trude's most deplorable failing is that she is the daugh- 
 ter of her mother. Poor thing ! if she had been born 
 without a mother, it would have been better for her. The 
 man who can face, without flinching, the prospect of Mrs. 
 Ferris as a mother-in-law is yet unborn ; a man likes to be 
 his own manager. And now she has Geoffrey in her eye, 
 the wary angler !" 
 
 " You have just come from him, have you not ?" 
 
 " Yes." She sat filliping the rose in her hat. 
 
 "Did you read mother's will?" continued Constance, 
 softly, surprised at Eleanor's sudden silence. 
 
 Yes.* 
 
30 
 
 " Of course we always knew that she had devised her 
 property to us in this way, but it seems more real after 
 reading it." 
 
 She scanned her sister's face anxiously, conscious that 
 some untoward event had robbed it of its bright charrn. 
 
 " Is anything wrong, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " No, only Constance, you know the Vassaults are 
 going to Europe next month." 
 
 " So you told me last night." 
 
 " Well, they wish me to go with them, and I wish to 
 go, too. May I ?" 
 
 " It is not a trip down-town, dear. It requires a nice 
 little sum to get ready, go, stay, and return." 
 
 "I know; but I have it now, and I wish you would let 
 me take some of it for this. Oh, Constance, I am just 
 wild to go. I have never been, and I have longed for it 
 so often." 
 
 " You know, Eleanor," said Constance, gravely, "that I 
 dearly wish you to go, too but not with Mrs. Vassault." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " She is too young and careless." 
 
 " She is as proper as you," burst forth the girl, -vio- 
 lently. " She goes with the best people, and you have 
 often let me go out with her." 
 
 " But this is quite a different affair. Certainly, Mrs. 
 Vassault knows and keeps the proprieties she does that 
 by instinct ; but she also does some very foolish things." 
 
 " Am I not to be trusted ?" 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 " Try me. Constance, darling, just this first trial ! 
 You always want to give us what pleasure you can. Say 
 yes, Constance." 
 
She was kneeling at her feet, her arms about her waist, 
 her lovely face raised pleadingly to the troubled beauty 
 of her sister's eyes. 
 
 "Dear, honestly, I cannot." 
 
 The girl made a passionate movement with her hands, 
 sprang to her feet, and threw herself on the divan in a 
 fit of sobbing. 
 
 " It is easy enough for you to sit there and refuse me 
 so calmly !" she cried. " You have had your pleasure. 
 You were twice across ; and because we grew up after 
 the trouble, you think it is an easy thing to have to re- 
 nounce everything out of the ordinary rut. A mother 
 would not act so. A mother gives in once in a while. 
 Oh, mamma, mamma, I wish you were alive !" 
 
 Constance had witnessed such an outburst before. 
 'Nevertheless, her face showed, in its pallor, the heavy 
 contraction of her heart caused by the bitter words. 
 
 " Poor Eleanor !" she said, rising, and laying her hand 
 on the silky hair ; " poor girl ! I am sorry, too, that you 
 have no mother. I am only doing my best, sister ; I am 
 sorry it is so bad." 
 
 The girl sobbed on, her face smothered in the 
 cushion. 
 
 "You never stop to consider that we are younger than 
 you ; that we have no father, or brother, or relatives to 
 take us about, but have to rely on the kindness of friends. 
 You are unjust and hard. But I won't stand it !" she 
 arose suddenly, and confronted her sister with a distorted 
 face " I swear I won't !" 
 
 She had frightened Constance before into acquiescence, 
 and now the latter drew her hand over her brow with a 
 weary, uncertain gesture. 
 
"Hush, Eleanor!" she said, hoarsely. "Let me think 
 it over, will you ?" 
 
 Eleanor drew in her breath hard. Her strong young 
 arms went about her sister and strained her close. " I 
 am a devil," she whispered, fiercely ; " but I can't help it. 
 And I I do love you, Constance." She rushed from 
 the room in a flash. 
 
 Five minutes later a quiet little figure groped its way 
 into the room. 
 
 " Are you there, Constance ?" asked the bird - like 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes, Nan." 
 
 The child's figure grew strained and still. Then she 
 moved toward the voice. She raised her hand and 
 stroked the loved cheek. 
 
 "Never mind, Constance," she murmured, "never 
 mind." 
 
 It was the childish comfort the little sensitive-plant 
 always offered. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE Harriotts' drawing-room was large and pleasant 
 to sit in. Continual usage had deprived it of many 
 of the semblances of dignity which, in some degree, the 
 room of state usually possesses. The soft carpet on the 
 floor was beginning to lose its delicate shading; the 
 piano, more often open than shut, was generally strewn 
 with loose sheets of music ; the heavy, rich furniture, 
 into which a far-sighted economy of long ago had 
 woven a saving fibre, but which now savored of the past 
 like a magnificent, well - seasoned coat, had a faculty 
 of arranging itself in odd groups of twos and threes, as 
 if possessed of a fundamental taste for cliques. The 
 beautiful lace-curtains were often ruthlessly thrust behind 
 a chair, to admit a full flood of sunlight ; at times, has- 
 tily thrown - down books complacently disported them- 
 selves on chairs; now and then a newspaper sprawled 
 over a divan ; and visitors, entering, found themselves 
 laying aside all formality, as a foreign wrap altogether 
 out of season. 
 
 There was generally a breath of flowers in the air, as 
 herald to the exquisitely arranged blossoms in pretty 
 bowl or dainty vase. There were several fine engravings 
 and two or three etchings on the deep, creamy walls, 
 from among which peeped one perfect bit of French 
 water-color, like a touch of worldliness in a sunny country 
 field. A slender rosewood cabinet containing a few 
 
valuable pieces of porcelain and ivory, and many oddities 
 and incongruities to which Grace's botanic - geological 
 turn was always adding, smiled in neighborly congenial- 
 ity upon the pretty tea-table. As social judgment is al- 
 ways passed on circumstantial evidence, the Herriotts 
 were dubbed, from the appearance of their drawing- 
 room, careless as Bohemians. But Bohemianism holding 
 in its appellation a covert suggestion of happiness, the 
 stricture carried a spice of pensive jealousy interlarded 
 with its stately disapproval. 
 
 The children were all there. Marjorie, whose little 
 nose was pressed against the window-pane, and Grace 
 beside her, were watching the sun setting in a flood of 
 flame. It bathed the spire of the church in a stream of 
 blood, painted the windows of the city in tattered 
 splashes of crimson, and fell upon the little one's golden 
 curls like a band of rubies. Nan, nestling among the 
 cushions of the divan, listened to Edith's animated ac- 
 count of a tilt she had had at school. They were enjoy- 
 ing a lazy happiness when Eleanor's entrance scattered 
 the brooding peace of the room. 
 
 " Play something, Grace," she called. " You are for- 
 ever mooning out of windows, as if your home interior 
 were of no account. Play a waltz, and we'll have a 
 dance. Eh, Nansie ?" 
 
 Grace seated herself compliantly at the piano. She 
 struck into a low dream waltz. Nan, who loved the 
 poetry of motion, was presently gliding about with El- 
 eanor. When the music changed into a stirring galop 
 Eleanor stopped, after a pace, and seated Nan, quite 
 breathless, in a chair. Edith, in a fervor of animal spir- 
 its, sent the chairs spinning as she flew through the 
 
35 
 
 room, regardless of Marjorie's plaintive appeal to stop, 
 as the child was whirled about in the girl's tenacious 
 hold. It was only when Edith noticed that Grace's 
 music had again changed that she paused to take breath. 
 
 She was playing a minuet. At the sound of the quaint, 
 stately measure, Eleanor stepped from the shadowy cor- 
 ner, her lithe figure in pale, vapory gray, slowly advan- 
 cing to the rhythm of the music ; advanced and re- 
 treated, swayed, and was gone ; courtesied deep and 
 stepped a measure, met her imaginary courtier, and 
 parted again, in the mimic pace of life the joy of com- 
 ing, the grief of going, the music fainting and flowing, 
 staccato and sustenato, in the stateliness of grave prose, 
 the grace of sensuous poetry. 
 
 The others watched with lazy pleasure they were 
 used to Eleanor's graceful vagaries. 
 
 It was Grace who first saw the tall dark figure on the 
 threshold, and her playing stopped with a crash as she 
 sprang to her feet. 
 
 " Is it you, Mr. Kenyon ?" she asked, coming forward 
 uncertainly. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, taking her hand. " I begged 
 the maid not to disturb you while I stood there with the 
 impertinence of a snap camera. You are Miss Grace, I 
 remember, and you are Miss Edith." He held out his 
 hand to the tall school-girl, who put hers in his with the 
 straightforward movement of a boy. 
 
 "Just Edith," she acquiesced, with a friendly nod 
 which brought an involuntary smile to Kenyon's eyes. 
 11 There is Nan." 
 
 " I know little Nan," he responded, patting the child's 
 hand softly. " And this is Marjorie. You see," he ex- 
 
36 
 
 plained, as he picked up the little one, putting the 
 young girls at their ease with his frank ingenuousness, 
 " that cousin of yours has made introductions quite un- 
 necessary. I knew you all long ago." 
 
 " Do you know me, too ?" asked the other girl, mov- 
 ing from her shadowy retreat. She had been startled at 
 sight of his face beautiful, yet clear-cut as a piece of 
 chiselling in the dimming light. He took a quick step 
 toward her. 
 
 " You are ah, we have met before !" He held out 
 his hand. " * Had we never met so blindly ' " he began, 
 but stopped abruptly. " I fear I hurt you that first 
 time. Do you cherish animosity ?" 
 
 " No ; I shall forgive you, if you promise never to do 
 so again." 
 
 " I never hurt voluntarily ; things will move round, 
 you know, willy-nilly. All we can do is to relieve our- 
 selves in a grumble, and let things pass." 
 
 " Molt, as it were," she observed, as their glance fell 
 upon Constance standing in the curtained doorway. 
 
 Eleanor, watching him narrowly, saw the easy self- 
 possession of his aspect change curiously. The warm 
 blood surged to his temples as he moved to greet his 
 hostess. The filmy black gown, which she wore with- 
 out ornament of any description, suited her peculiarly. 
 While dressing she had had a vague,,unaccountable de- 
 sire to add a ribbon or a rose, something light and fem- 
 inine, but Eleanor's words had routed the unspoken 
 thought. 
 
 " What a difference there is between us !" she had ex- 
 claimed, almost petulantly. " All you have to do is to 
 put on your gown and you are entirely dressed. Your 
 
37 
 
 complexion and hair are always to be relied on they 
 are as unchangeably perfect as those of a transfigura^ 
 tion ; a rose in your hair would be as much out of place 
 as upon your magnificent Venus, who is perpetually 
 clothed in her own marble chastity. I don't know what 
 I lack, but I always have to add stucco-work to my es- 
 sentials to give the effect its proper character just as 
 bits of paint on the cheek designate a certain class of 
 women." 
 
 " What a comparison !" Constance had laughed. " You 
 do not need your roses they are only lines of emphasis 
 to the fact that you and they are akin." 
 
 Kenyon might have echoed Eleanor's words, without 
 the petulance, as he approached her. 
 
 " Good-evening," he said, as their hands met. 
 
 " Good-evening," she made answer, as their hands fell 
 apart. Such was his advent into the Herriott family. 
 
 There were certain things about the dinner and even- 
 ing which, being individual, Kenyon never utterly for- 
 got. The bright girl-faces gathered about the circular 
 table held an element of home-light which was new and 
 charming to him. 
 
 " I am one of those vagabonds," he commented, with 
 friendly confidence, " whose name has never belonged to 
 a home-list. I was thrust into the world with but one 
 tie, and that was broken as soon as she saw me comfort- 
 ably started that is, as soon as my systole and diastole 
 apparatus were in conventional running order. I grew up 
 among strangers, and in my club-quarters have retained 
 mostly masculine associates. Actually, I could count 
 upon my fingers the number of times I have dined, as 
 to-night, exclusively en famille. ' When asked to dine it 
 
38 
 
 has generally proven that I was one of a batch of other 
 guests. At such times, dining is assisting at an enter- 
 tainment. It takes the presence of a child, I see, to rob 
 the pleasure of all formality." Marjorie had refused, 
 with a species of childish infatuation, to be separated 
 from him, and was seated beside him monopolizing him 
 with her favors. 
 
 " Marjorie has adopted you," observed Constance, 
 with a smile. "But should we pity you? You seem 
 to have flourished under the privation." 
 
 "Weeds also grow strong and lusty without care." 
 He noticed how, almost unobserved, she had placed the 
 fork in Nan's hand, and arranged everything for her 
 within comfortable reach. 
 
 Later he could not restrain his look of absorbed in- 
 terest when Constance carved. She noticed it. 
 
 "You do not regard this as a woman's right," she 
 said, glancing up for a second, and then looking down as 
 the sharp steel slid through the brown meat. 
 
 " You are an artist," he said, with simple force. 
 
 "It is the art of necessity," she replied. It was not 
 the dexterous use of the knife which arrested his ad- 
 miration ; his eye was held by the manner in which she 
 poised the fork in the bird's breast. The firm, white 
 hand, the rounded, satiny wrist, with the nicks in the 
 corners, did not stir, the supple finger resting on the 
 guard looked strong and nerveless as the steel. It would 
 be a steady finger on a trigger, he thought, by an in- 
 explicable analogy. 
 
 " Constance has served her apprenticeship," laughed 
 Eleanor. " The first time she had fowl to carve she was 
 confronted as by a blind alley there seemed no way 
 
39 
 
 through. Unfortunately, our cook, a new one that day, 
 was as conversant with the biped's ligaments as we. We 
 contemplated it for a while in irritable imbecility until 
 Constance was inspired. ' Run for Geoffrey, Grace,' 
 she said. 'Tell him we must see him on the instant. 
 Tell him it is a matter which menaces life and limb.' 
 That was six years ago, when Mr. Brunton was keeping 
 bachelor's hall two blocks from here. Grace and he 
 were back in ten minutes, and that day Constance took 
 her first lesson in carving." 
 
 " You were fortunate in having such a convenient 
 ally." 
 
 "Oh, Geoffrey is a sort of alarm patrol for us," put in 
 Edith. " Constance has only to touch the button and he 
 is here." 
 
 " Mr. Brunton calls us his conscience," explained Con- 
 stance quietly, her still gray eyes meeting his. "We 
 are quite as troublesome calling him up sharply at the 
 most unexpected moments. He comes now without 
 demur, and generally at his leisure ; we never expose him 
 to any danger." 
 
 " Danger is inviting," observed Eleanor, in a low tone 
 of challenge. 
 
 " That depends on circumstances," answered Kenyon, 
 turning quickly toward her. 
 
 " Of time and place ?" 
 
 " No ; on the degree of vanity." 
 
 " Of personality, you should say, and be more exact." 
 
 " Pardon me, I said and meant of vanity." 
 
 "Your judgment is pessimistic, and, therefore, only 
 half true. Everybody is not brave through vanity." 
 
 " / believe the contrary." 
 
40 
 
 " Indeed ! You are perhaps only following a divine 
 precept conceiving man in your own image." 
 
 The quick interchange of comment, the two bright 
 faces, were dangerously alike. Both their pulses beat 
 warmly as their eyes held each other. Presently he 
 laughed, boyishly throwing back his head. 
 
 " Miss Eleanor," he said, " if there were not a child 
 between us I am afraid we might come to blows. It is 
 always good for me to have an olive-branch between my 
 opponent and myself. I am rabid when struck." 
 
 " And I," retorted Eleanor. 
 
 Afterwards he heard them sing Abt's "Evening." 
 Scott had often expatiated on the harmony of their 
 voices. Constance played and took the alto, Grace con- 
 tralto, Edith and Nan soprano, and Eleanor mezzo-sopra- 
 no. Kenyon, sitting a little removed, with Marjorie on 
 his knee, half closed his eyes. He heard almost uncon- 
 sciously. He was wholly possessed by the form and face 
 of Constance Herriott rising in the midst of her younger 
 sisters like a queenly water-lily among its neighboring 
 buds. The moment was peaceful and beautiful. 
 
 Then he asked Eleanor to sing. Scott, he said, had 
 told him she was quite the prima donna. She hesitated 
 capriciously. Her face was deeply flushed, the red rose 
 in her glinting hair drooped in heavy languor toward 
 her tiny ear. Presently she placed a sheet of music before 
 Constance and began to sing. It was a dramatic ballad ; 
 the words, somewhat intense, depicted the sensations of 
 Sheba at the sight of Solomon, and began with, " He 
 stood a king." Her voice was full and rich ; but it was 
 the power of passion which colored it that astounded 
 Kenyon. 
 
41 
 
 " Thank you," he said, as she finished and Constance 
 arose. "You have a beautiful power in your throat." 
 She smiled. She was slightly pale, as if exhausted. 
 
 "Now," said Constance, coming toward him, "you 
 must excuse me one minute while I put this little lady 
 to bed. Kiss all around, Marjorie." 
 
 His gaze followed her curiously as she left the room 
 holding the child's hand. Were such attentions neces- 
 sary ? 
 
 "Geoffrey will be here soon," observed Nan, in a pleas- 
 antly anticipating tone ; " won't he, Grace ?" 
 
 "Yes; Geoffrey always comes Friday night," she ex- 
 plained. Even as she spoke he came in. Kenyon was 
 conscious of a twinge of jealousy as he noted the quiet 
 pleasure with which he was greeted. 
 
 " Ah, Kenyon," said Brunton, holding out a hand to 
 his client, and shaking it as if the personality of its own- 
 er were somewhat vague. Then he strolled over and sat 
 down by Nan, taking her hand in his. The child's face 
 flushed with delight the sense of contact is very com- 
 forting to the blind. 
 
 When Constance came in again she carried a violin in 
 its case. 
 
 " I found this in the hall," she announced. " I was 
 afraid you had forgotten it. Will you play anything 
 for us ? Oh, Geoffrey." 
 
 " As usual," he answered, shaking hands and seating 
 himself again, " Kenyon, Nan is quivering with impa- 
 tience ; I, with doubt. Do you know what you are evok- 
 ing, Constance ?" 
 
 " I think so. May I accompany you, Mr. Kenyon ? I 
 see you have brought your music." 
 
It was a dance of Dvorak, quaint, wild, fantastic. It 
 held them charmed. The violinist himself seemed pos- 
 sessed with a half -barbaric spirit as his bow cut and 
 flashed and danced upon the strings in the flow of singu- 
 lar melody. 
 
 " And now," he said, before they could speak, " I must 
 go," and he moved toward the door. They looked up 
 at him in startled wonder. 
 
 "You don't know the value of a pause," remarked 
 Brunton. 
 
 " It is my way," laughed Kenyon. " To pause with 
 me means to become stationary. I must go at the first 
 inspiration or not at all." He shook hands with them 
 all. Constance accompanied him into the hall. 
 
 " I have not had time to speak with you. You are off 
 like an arrow." 
 
 " I shall come again," he said, gravely. " I I prom- 
 ised Scott I would read the first chapters of my book to 
 you. He values your literary opinion highly. May I ?" 
 He looked diffident as a big handsome boy, standing be- 
 fore her and glancing down at her. 
 
 "Ah," she smiled, her heart giving a painful leap, " you 
 touch my vanity. I am going to take the undeserved 
 honor like a sneak." 
 
 " Don't," he said, his brows contracting. 
 
 " Well, come some night next week," she answered, 
 lightly, and he was gone. 
 
 When the younger girls had retired, Brunton broached 
 the question of Eleanor's departure. 
 
 " Have you come to any conclusion, Constance ?" he 
 asked, glancing over toward Eleanor, who appeared 
 otherwise absorbed. 
 
43 
 
 " Yes," replied Constance, clearly. " When the Vas- 
 saults go, Grace will have graduated. I think it will be 
 a good opportunity for her to go, and I shall like to know 
 that Eleanor has her with her. Mr. Vassault is very 
 fond of Grace, and will not object, I am sure." 
 
 " But," interposed Brunton, with raised eyebrows, 
 " have you considered the cost of Grace's tour ? It will 
 require a good sum, you know." 
 
 " I have it. I have never used any of my own capital. 
 How does that plan strike you, Eleanor ?" 
 
 "What? That?" drawled the girl, with a yawn. 
 " Don't trouble yourselves. I am not going." 
 
 Constance looked at her in mute inquiry. To Brun- 
 ton the inexplicable words were like a cold douche after 
 a steam-bath. His eyes, wandering aimlessly from Elea- 
 nor, fell upon Kenyon's violin. He had forgotten to 
 take it with him. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 C CLUB, 
 
 NEW YORK, April 21, 18 . 
 
 MY DEAR CONSTANCE, No doubt Kenyon has pre- 
 sented himself long ago with a verbal recommendation 
 from me which was valueless, he being one of those for- 
 tunate sails who carry their own breeze with them. What 
 do you think of him ? Like him, eh? Women have such 
 a marvellous faculty of arriving at correct conclusions 
 without a trace of reasoning. However, it is preposter- 
 ous to imagine your caring for his forebears, an artist's 
 pedigree being overshadowed by his work. As to his 
 own credentials, a writer paints two men in his hero his 
 model, imaginary or taken from life, and himself. But 
 genius, you know, is democratic ; one never knows what 
 may be picked up with it. Kenyon, however, is of excel- 
 lent stock and breeding, if you wish testimony as to the 
 animal. His father was one Gilbert Kenyon, an archi- 
 tect, almost an artist, of distinguished repute, whose 
 family dates back to Adam, than whom none prior sat. 
 His mother was a Carter, one of the loveliest of women, 
 who gave to her son all her Southern fire and charm, and, 
 having none left for herself, departed a month after her 
 husband. The record has its parallel, we know. Ken- 
 yon is thus free of all family entanglements. He shines 
 by his own light, without even the advantage of an an- 
 cestral background a sort of detached central figure 
 
45 
 
 which arrests attention wherever it moves. The world is 
 pleased to call his curious faults eccentricities. A great 
 deal of his success would be accounted the result of his 
 unusual physical attractions, if he allowed himself to 
 be the puppet of the many social queens who have sought 
 to inveigle him to their salons as an additional superb 
 ornament. But he is to be measured by a different 
 measurement. He is singularly indifferent to adulation 
 of that kind. He burns feverishly with strong literary 
 ambitions. He has made some bright showing, but has 
 not yet attained apogee. His powers are all in their 
 incipiency. My conviction is that he requires to go 
 through the mill, especially the " dem'd grind " of another 
 sort of misery than that of the body, before he will stand. 
 Meanwhile he has been put in the way of new material. 
 Give him a little wholesome, unspiced home-diet to act 
 as bromide to his ardor. My love and a kiss to the 
 chickens and their ultra-devoted mother-hen. 
 
 SEVERN SCOTT. 
 
 The foregoing letter came one morning when Con- 
 stance and Eleanor sat together, rocking and sewing. 
 Constance had smiled over its contents, and Eleanor, 
 reading over her shoulder, remarked that Severn's punc- 
 tilious solicitude was not to be disdained. 
 
 " Does he think us disposed to accept a man merely on 
 the prima facie of his good looks?" she asked, mockingly. 
 ". Does he account us such barbarians of the West as to 
 suppose we would take into the bosom of our family a 
 man without prenatal advantages and authorized ar- 
 chives that he owns a dust-heap somewhere worthy of 
 distinction from the common dirt of a Potter's Field? 
 
46 
 
 Dear Severn, we are not utterly lost to the survival of 
 the fittest ! We are diffident about honoring the most 
 artistic signature without the identification of Eastern 
 approval. Bosh !" 
 
 " Not altogether ' bosh,' " Constance decided, with a 
 laugh. " Blood will talk sooner or later, and very often 
 it is later than comfort would direct. These records of 
 the past serve us socially as a sort of reference agency. 
 Half the time we trust to our impulses, which are about 
 as reliable as weathercocks." 
 
 " That royal ' we ' is generous. You know quite well 
 that all your emotions are tied up with endless, tire- 
 some red-tape. You impulsive ! Then I am irrespon- 
 sible." 
 
 They were all in the library in the evening, when the 
 maid brought Kenyon's card to Constance. 
 
 " He asked for Miss Herriott," she explained. 
 
 " Yes ? Very well, Betty. Mr. Kenyon has called," 
 she added, turning to Eleanor. " He promised to come 
 with his book, and read parts of it to me. I I wish you 
 would come in, too, Eleanor." 
 
 1 3> The r i s i n g intonation, with its undertone of 
 surprise and disappointment, was of exaggerated dura- 
 tion. " Thanks ; it was never my ambition to enact the 
 role of fifth wheel." 
 
 Constance moved from the room in silent dignity, but 
 with her brows deeply contracted. Eleanor suddenly be- 
 came absorbingly interested in her book. During the 
 whole evening she did not glance up once not even 
 when the children said " Good-night." Had Grace been 
 a tease, she might have remarked that the page was 
 never turned ; had she been a physiognomist, she would 
 
47 
 
 have observed that the set jaw of her silent sister indi- 
 cated clinched teeth. 
 
 " Did I intrude ?" asked Kenyon, after they had ex- 
 changed greetings, and he had seated himself at some lit- 
 tle distance from her. 
 
 " Not at all. I was particularly at a loss to know 
 what to do with myself this evening. I was indulging 
 in a bit of dreaming." 
 
 " If it was a good dream, I am sorry I broke it ; if 
 otherwise, I am glad." 
 
 "Good or bad, they are worthless things dreams," 
 she assured him, lightly. " They serve for the moment, 
 and then, thin as air, pass on. It is better to live in ac- 
 tive, substantial materialism." 
 
 " That passes, too, happily for the luckless dog who 
 finds no meat on his bone. I knew a fellow once who 
 rowed through life easily with this oar : * Tout lasse, tout 
 passe, tout casseS But, unfortunately for most of us, we 
 have not attained the contentment of seals. To lie in the 
 sun and bask is not the common ambition. I have de- 
 sires which prick me out of all ease." He touched with 
 his hand an oblong package which lay on his knee. It 
 was a nervous gesture. His face, too, showed in its slight 
 pallor his inward perturbation. He looked across at her 
 with shy eagerness as she leaned back in her chair and 
 listened with gentle interest. 
 
 " Of course," he laughed, " this is the most trouble- 
 some. I am going to tell you the story if you feel in a 
 listening mood to-night. Do you ?" 
 
 " I am very anxious to hear it. But why not read in- 
 stead of telling it 2" 
 
 " Because its claims for excellence, if it have any, lie 
 
48 
 
 more in the matter than manner. I shall read you a page 
 here and there to show you the style of the animal ; you 
 may find it either too dull or fantastic for the characters. 
 I do not think I should put a black gown on a negress, 
 but I might put diamonds in her ears, and make her as 
 much out of drawing. Look out for the weaknesses, but 
 don't be finical, please." 
 
 " It is bad policy to begin with a plea for clemency," 
 she smiled. " I assure you I am singularly open to the 
 conviction of its charms." 
 
 " Entirely unprejudiced ?" 
 
 " Quite," she returned, with guilty promptitude. 
 
 " Well, I won't bore you," he said, untying the cord. 
 " I shall make it as short as possible." 
 
 " Don't," she protested. 
 
 " Oh, yes," he insisted, fingering the manuscript nerv- 
 ously. " You will notice that I am experiencing a spe- 
 cies of stage-fright just at this moment. I am new to 
 this sort of thing." 
 
 " So am I. I appreciate the honor." 
 
 " Honors are easy in this instance. Well, here goes." 
 
 Straightway he began to read, his voice somewhat un- 
 steady, the flickering color gradually mounting to his 
 temples. For several minutes she did not hear a word 
 he read. All her being hung upon his presence : his per- 
 fect head and countenance ; his easy figure, graceful and 
 manly in the becoming evening - dress ; his long, supple 
 brown hands, with the well-formed, finely-kept nails. She 
 recalled her attention with an effort, and presently his 
 deep voice reached her with meaning. 
 
 The style was straightforward and with little embel- 
 lishment. He grouped his characters clearly ; then drew 
 
49 
 
 them out, and let them speak for themselves more in 
 action than conversation. After reading enough to in- 
 troduce the plot, he commenced to tell the story, refer- 
 ring now and then to the MS., so as not to lose the 
 finer points. She grew interested. It was exciting, al- 
 most tragic ; but whenever he neared the verge of a ca- 
 tastrophe, something intervened to outwit misery. It 
 was exhilarating as a race, the favorite always winning 
 the heat. Presently he again took up the book, and read 
 the last two chapters which he had written. Then he 
 looked up with a faint smile. 
 
 " It is splendid !" she exclaimed, wishing to bring 
 back the happy glow to his face as quickly as possible. 
 
 " Honestly ?" he cried. He put his hand across his 
 eyes and was silent. When he looked up he wore a 
 questioning smile. 
 
 " Where is the dissenting < but ' ?" 
 
 " The beginning is all wrong." 
 
 Why ?" 
 
 " That girl would never have loved at first sight." 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 " She was too old. Make her younger make her 
 twenty." 
 
 " No ; she would lose all interest for me at that callow 
 age." 
 
 " Then make her love more slowly." 
 
 " That would not be love, that would be affection a 
 dull, insensate feeling, comfortable, perhaps, but one such 
 as animals feel for their furs. They grow used to them, 
 and cannot do without them." 
 
 " It is a good feeling." 
 
 " You say that as I have beard some women draw at- 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 tention to the lack of beauty in another by saying, * She 
 is so good, you know.' No, Miss Herriott, love what I 
 call love is a sudden brilliant flame, alike for man and 
 woman. It needs no arranging of dampers to make it 
 burn. And my heroine could easily love like that." 
 
 " Do you wish my ' candid criticism?' " 
 
 " Certainly." He reared his head and met her eyes 
 dauntlessly. 
 
 " You have invested a woman of twenty-five with the 
 attributes of a girl of twenty. Your imagination has de- 
 ceived you. Beware of imagination, Mr. Kenyon." 
 
 His face turned a dark red. He sat silent, without 
 stirring. Suddenly he leaned forward. 
 
 " Do you know," he said, speaking slowly, in a low 
 voice, " that I do not believe you ? Neither do you be- 
 lieve yourself." 
 
 She drew back haughtily, her face white in its indig- 
 nant pride. He sprang from his chair and took a stride 
 across the room. At the farther end he turned and re- 
 garded her. 
 
 "Let me explain myself," he began, swiftly. "You 
 say an older woman does not love at first sight. Do you 
 not think some women at that age love as fatuously as a 
 girl of twenty ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Then concede that certain types of men might incite 
 love, the passion, in the heart of the most self-contained." 
 
 She considered a moment, looking thoughtfully before 
 her, not meeting his eyes. 
 
 " Perhaps," she answered, finally. 
 
 He took a step forward, then turned and leaned his 
 arm on the piano. 
 
51 
 
 " And do you think Carruthers fills the bill ?" 
 
 She smiled involuntarily, the words of the letter she 
 had read that morning recurring to her on the instant. 
 
 "You are better able to judge than I," she said. "You 
 have painted yourself, I think." 
 
 " Do you think so ? But I cannot help myself, you 
 see. I need the heroine's insight. Can't you put your 
 self in her place for to-night ?" 
 
 " Impossible. I am not Protean. Let the point go, 
 Mr. Kenyon ; you know the girl better than I." 
 
 " I shall not change it," he said, laughing and reseat- 
 ing himself. " I ask you to criticise, and after you have 
 done so I cling like a leech to my own opinions. I want 
 things to turn out my way, whether in the course of nat- 
 ure or through my distorted fancy. You read things 
 more profoundly, or, rather, they converse with you. I 
 am not like that. I see only form and color ; a yellow 
 primrose to me is nothing but a yellow primrose." 
 
 " You are mistaken about me. Eleanor has a fine sub- 
 jective mind not I." 
 
 "Yes, you have," he insisted, inflexibly, "through 
 your perfect balance. You are in subtle touch with 
 what is hidden. Now my mental epidermis is thick, and 
 I miss a great deal of the beauty of the occult." 
 
 "And the misery. That is why your stories are so 
 happy." 
 
 " Perhaps ; but it is a compensation which I don't 
 value. It leaves me at a disadvantage in my work." 
 
 " You might remedy the loss." 
 
 "How?"' 
 
 " By stooping to listen." 
 
 " I don't know how. I am provided with a sort of 
 
buoy which keeps me afloat. I can't dive. Miss Her- 
 riott, I know there is something lacking in my work. It 
 is like the faun wild, happy, but elusive. You could 
 help me." His voice sank to low beseeching. 
 
 " How ?" she asked, her broad gray eyes meeting his 
 wistfully. 
 
 " By pointing out its frailties more in detail." 
 
 "Indeed, no. I am not a reviewer why should I 
 make myself disagreeable ?" 
 
 "On the plea of friendship not disagreeable, but 
 kind. Shall we make a compact, and agree to give and 
 take, without asking pardon, without giving thanks, on 
 the broad, unquestioning understanding which binds per- 
 fect friends ?" 
 
 He stood before her with outheld hand. She put hers 
 into it hesitatingly, yet irresistibly. 
 
 "It will be all take for me," she said, with a grave 
 smile. 
 
 " Quien sabe ? You will give more than you can un- 
 derstand," he returned, in an uncertain undertone. 
 
 " It would be pleasant having such a friend," she 
 thought, when she was alone. Yet she was not a woman 
 of easy friendship. With her strong, inward life and 
 necessary self-reliance she was not prone to make a con- 
 fidant of any one, and thus she maintained the sover- 
 eignty of herself. Yet one must be utterly unworthy if 
 he cannot count one friend; also he is much to be pitied. 
 Constance, in the truest significance of the term, allowed 
 herself one great friend ; but in that instance she had 
 always known that she must take more than she could 
 ever give. With Hall Kenyon friendship would mean 
 something less grave, something lighter and more in- 
 
53 
 
 tangible, yet bright and alluring as a will-o'-the-wisp. 
 It would be pleasant to feel herself in touch with his 
 eager ambitions. 
 
 And yet, as she lay in her bed watching the star- 
 beams reflected on the curtains, a bit of worldly sophis- 
 try passed like a cloud through her memory : " I have 
 little belief, as a rule, in friendships between' man and 
 woman I mean when both the people concerned have 
 youth and imagination. One or the other gets generally 
 more or less than was bargained for." 
 
 "I am not youthful," thought Constance, "and " 
 She had told him to beware of imagination. She now 
 reiterated the words over and over to herself as she 
 strove to sleep. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 As the weeks slipped into months Kenyon's affairs 
 began to adjust themselves, and Brunton announced to 
 him that his presence in the city was no longer required 
 he could leave whenever he so wished. Kenyon, how- 
 ever, evinced no hurry. He was knee-deep in engage- 
 ments, doing the coast conscientiously. His trip to the 
 Yosemite with Joscelyn, the artist, occupied several 
 weeks. He had Monterey, Santa Barbara, Coronado, 
 and the Geysers to explore, all of which cut into his 
 time, and made his dropping down upon San Francisco, 
 his headquarters, intermittent and uncertain. 
 
 Constance, however, usually knew when he had come 
 to town. A bunch of flowers, a book, or a note soon 
 became recognized avant couriers of his evening's ad- 
 vent. 
 
 Generally she received him alone. He had made a 
 fine distinction in asking for "Miss Herriott" whenever 
 he could summon the shadow of an excuse for her at- 
 tention exclusively. At other times he walked in upon 
 the group of girls in the library with the sunny assur- 
 ance which was part of the secret of his geniality. He 
 met, half- way, the people for whom he cared, and, if 
 necessary, finding them shy, more than half-way. It re- 
 quires a fund of self-confidence and freedom from any 
 doubt of the desirability of one's society to acquire the 
 ease. Kenyon would have been keen to detect the 
 
55 
 
 moment he began to bore, and have governed himself 
 accordingly. His perceptions were too sensitive to allow 
 his inclinations to carry him where congeniality would 
 be set at defiance. Only an ass is sure of himself under 
 all circumstances. But the happy smiles and voices, 
 the little gusts of joyousness, and movements of satis- 
 faction with which they greeted him, were not to be 
 misunderstood. Formality was not long an intruder in 
 his presence. The Herriotts gradually began to regard 
 him as a family friend, though of a caliber which made 
 the friendship totally different from their relations with 
 Geoffrey Brunton. The latter's coming had long ceased 
 to incite any excitement in their midst. He was one of 
 them. A stranger, seeing him enter, might have thought 
 he had stepped in from the next room, or returned from 
 a few minutes' walk, for all the disturbance he occa- 
 sioned. Often he brought his book, and they would re- 
 sume theirs as though there had been no interruption. 
 They knew that Geoffrey was comfortable, and had 
 found what he wanted in sitting with them. 
 
 Hall Kenyon's personality was too restless to provoke 
 such a calm. Brunton acted as valerian, Kenyon as vig- 
 orous massage ; he rubbed and pinched and kneaded 
 their wits to animation. Grace and Edith would have 
 described the feeling his appearance produced by say- 
 ing, " We are going to have a splendid time." He could 
 tell them much. He had travelled a great deal and in 
 many odd by-ways. He had had thrilling as well as 
 ludicrous adventures and misadventures. He could typ- 
 ify vividly with an adjective, explain sensations by an 
 eloquent pause or odd facial expression. 
 
 Eleanor alone met him with nonchalant indifference, a 
 
56 
 
 fact which at first disconcerted him, but which he finally 
 accounted a bit of affectation the desire of a young 
 girl who has seen a little of the world to appear blasee 
 and worldly tolerant. He even laughed over it when he 
 noticed how quickly her real self came to the front 
 whenever she saw a chance to throw in a wordy missile 
 and make him enter a discussion of battledore-shuttlecock 
 rapidity. The attack was always spirited, both having 
 the courage and vim of their convictions. Eleanor never 
 called a truce ; it was left to Kenyon to retreat with a 
 laugh, or, occasionally, with a flashing eye and savagely 
 compressed lip. Then Constance's quiet voice would 
 be heard offering amnesty in a change of subject. 
 
 It is hard to make clear the older girls' feeling for him 
 in those first months. Not long before, a gloomy win- 
 ter day had come to an end, and, in the west, in the re- 
 gion of the setting sun, there suddenly appeared a great 
 glory. Billow upon billow of gold was massed in mar- 
 vellous splendor ; it shot a pulsing flame throughout the 
 sombre heavens, it illuminated and enraptured the earth 
 in tumultuous warmth ; and Constance, as those who 
 feel such things, with her back to the desolate, dying 
 day, lifting her eyes to the glory, would have hugged 
 the radiance close within her arms. There is a lan- 
 guage which has no words. 
 
 He had written Constance a note, asking her to allow 
 him to take her and Eleanor to hear the great pianist 
 who had eventually arrived in the music-hungry little 
 city. 
 
 Constance handed Eleanor the note. 
 
 " Shall we go ?" she asked, easily, when Eleanor had 
 put down the missive. 
 
57 
 
 The latter was leisurely swinging in a rocking-chair 
 and did not pause, as she answered : " You can go. I 
 shall not." 
 
 " Why not ?" Constance looked at her anxiously. She 
 felt a great longing to go with him. 
 
 " Because, as I have told you a hundred times, I never 
 go anywhere on toleration." 
 
 "You have no excuse in taking such a stand in this 
 case. What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Why, simply that Mr. Hall Kenyon wishes the 
 pleasure of accompanying Miss Herriott to the concert, 
 and asks her sister Eleanor along for mere form's 
 sake." 
 
 " I could say the same with the names reversed." 
 
 " It would be a lame rejoinder. You know otherwise. 
 Mr. Kenyon does not send you flowers and bonbons 
 and marked paragraphs and other minutiae because he 
 admires your sister Eleanor, my dear Constance. He is 
 not such a roundabout man. Nay, nay, take your music 
 and your man without dividing ; one likes a monopoly 
 when it comes to an escort. I shall leave you to write 
 your most gracious of responses." She went into her 
 room, singing blithely. 
 
 " It is plain enough," she thought, sitting with locked 
 fingers " plain enough. I am a fool. Good heavens, 
 what a fool I am !" She bit her lip till the blood came ; 
 she could feel her temples throbbing at a wild gallop ; 
 she sat crouched together in a tense attitude. Pride 
 and jealousy were having a sharp tussle with her. The 
 instinctive conviction that she was only an afterthought 
 stung her with its truth. Had she been indifferent to 
 him this consideration would have had little weight; 
 
58 
 
 but as it was, she rose in 'arms at the slightest hint of 
 her unimportance. 
 
 Yet, as she recoiled, a sinuous little reptile wound 
 itself about her heart, and made her sick and chill. 
 " They will be alone all that time," she thought. " Con- 
 stance will look beautiful, and he will have eyes and 
 ears for nothing but her. I can prevent it. If I go he 
 will be forced to pay me some attention, and I shall, at 
 any rate, hear all he has to say to her. I wonder if the 
 statue has some Galatean emotions. I believe I am be- 
 ginning to hate her. Yes, I'll go." 
 
 She arose, hesitating for only a second. Constance 
 would regard it as another mark of caprice ; yes, she 
 would make capital of her reputed failing. 
 
 " After all," she called, putting her head in at Con- 
 stance's door, "I believe I shall go to that concert. 
 Might as well take a gift without noticing the manner 
 of offering. You will have to enjoy it with me." 
 
 " I should not have gone without you," returned Con- 
 stance, quietly. 
 
 So they went. To Constance, music was always a 
 grave joy. There were some strains, she had told Hall 
 Kenyon once, which would make dying a rapture. And 
 Kenyon had taken up his violin and played a certain 
 passage which made her start she had been thinking 
 of the same sublime movement. 
 
 To Eleanor the music was but an accompaniment to 
 her own intoxicated sensations. Young Love is an auto- 
 crat ; like the king of egoists it cries, " I am ; and while 
 I am, there is no one else." Eleanor could never clearly 
 recall the music she heard that evening. A great wit 
 once wrote that, on his first visit to Paris, he went to 
 
59 
 
 the Opera on the evening of his arrival, and sat behind 
 a woman with a large pink tulle hat ; he thus saw the 
 Parisians for the first time in a rose-colored light, and 
 the illusion never altogether left him. So, ever after, 
 when Eleanor heard a certain marvellous polonaise, a 
 great, confused pain drew her silent. 
 
 But quite suddenly one day a disturbing element en- 
 tered the happy household. Little Nan complained of 
 great weariness and lassitude. When the trouble had 
 continued for two days, Constance called in the phy- 
 sician. 
 
 " Bring her to me every day," he said. " I shall try 
 what electricity will do for her. Also keep her in the 
 open air a good deal, and give her a sea-bath three times 
 a week." 
 
 " It is foolish to worry, Constance," Brunton had said. 
 " The summer is lasting too long, and the child is ener- 
 vated. When the rains set in she will be all right. Let 
 me give you an idea : take her over to my vineyard at 
 Napa. Moore and his wife will be only too glad to make 
 you comfortable, and Eleanor can take care of the 
 others." 
 
 " The doctor said electricity," she reminded him, with 
 a shake of the head. 
 
 When she went in to meet Kenyon that evening he 
 started and changed color. He had never seen the 
 great blue shadows about her eyes, he had never seen 
 her look quite so grave and sad. She was not given to 
 moods, and she had always met him in the same even 
 manner. With him it had been different ; he had come 
 to her when he needed her, and it was not always when 
 he was happiest. 
 
60 
 
 He held her hand for a moment without speaking. 
 Then: 
 
 " Shall I go away ?" he asked, softly. 
 
 " No, no," she murmured. " I " 
 
 " Hush," he said. " Do not try to explain. It is 
 about one of the children little Nan, perhaps." 
 
 She could not understand why his voice, his presence, 
 should make her suddenly feel so weak and womanish ; 
 her figure drooped as she sat, her eyes were suffused 
 with tears. No one had seen Constance cry since her 
 mother's death. 
 
 " She is so tired," she faltered, shading her eyes with 
 her hand, " and the doctor speaks so doubtfully. I have 
 very little courage. I cannot do without Nan ; she is 
 my shrine." 
 
 " She understands without seeing," put in Kenyon 
 with another touch of the intuition which always made 
 her fearful. "But I do not think she is going to be 
 taken from you. Trust me ; I often augur right about 
 these things. And then with such care as you give " 
 
 " It is not a mother's care." 
 
 " It is more it is a devotee's. That is where you al- 
 most err in being too kind. Relax a little ; think of 
 yourself, and every small ill will not prove a great 
 scourge. Love is not blind in trouble ; it wears a mag- 
 nifying - glass. You see things in distorted largeness. 
 Will you not take care of yourself too, for all our 
 sakes ?" He looked down at her in serious pleading. 
 
 " You are so insistent," she said, reproachfully. 
 
 " It is my prerogative. And now shall I go, or do 
 you wish me to stay ?" 
 
 " Don't go," she said, putting out a hand. 
 
61 
 
 When he left he exacted a promise from her to come 
 with all the children to his Sausalito home on the fol- 
 lowing Saturday. 
 
 " My tenure of the place expires at the end of the 
 month. Let us make a holiday as a souvenir," he said. 
 
 The soft October Saturday was in a charming mood, 
 and they all seemed to have caught the infection. 
 
 Kenyon met them at the pier with a roomy wagonette. 
 The hills were too stiff and held themselves too high, he 
 said, to be walked over with impunity. 
 
 " A fig for their assumption !" scoffed Eleanor, as she 
 started gayly off by herself, with Edith soon after her 
 heels. 
 
 Mrs. Granniss, fanning herself down the central garden- 
 path in a plump, downy fashion, announced her chape- 
 ronage, and made them each at home with a kiss. 
 
 " Regard me as a mere figure-head, my dear girls," 
 she said, with a round-throated, gurgling laugh, as they 
 laid off their wraps in the cool, bamboo-furnished little 
 parlor. " Flirt as much as you want with Mr. Kenyon, 
 because I know he is the most charming fellow in the 
 world. There is safety in numbers, I suppose. My dear 
 doctor will be over as soon as he has finished his ser- 
 mon. He would rather miss his chance of a mansion in 
 the skies than the opportunity of a talk with you, Con- 
 stance dear." She was a woman who dealt in superla- 
 tives. The sweet old lady's imagination seemed to have 
 expanded to keep pace with her superfluous stock of 
 flesh. 
 
 Wong, the Chinaman, was in touch with the day, and 
 outdid himself in the dainty feast spread under the 
 autumn - leaved trees. The gold and crimson leaves 
 
underfoot were a soft, rustling carpet for their feet ; now 
 and then a single, glowing leaf fell upon the snowy cloth 
 like a whisper a reminder of departing glory. 
 
 " It is a day that sings," said Eleanor, leaning back in 
 her chair, the flickering shadows of the boughs over- 
 head swaying over her face and hair. " It is one of 
 those that we remember years after through a touch of 
 perfume in the atmosphere, like a song which we recall 
 inexplicably days after we have heard it sung. I wonder 
 what it is like to be a bird. I'll be one." She laughed 
 gayly at her own words, sprang from her seat, and the 
 next instant had climbed agilely to a high branch in the 
 old, deep-limbed oak at the side of the house. A few 
 minutes later Edith and Grace started off arm in arm. 
 Kenyon, noticing Nan's eyes closing, picked her up and 
 moved with her toward the hammock. 
 
 " She wants to be lazy, Miss Herriott," he called back, 
 " and she shall be whatever she wishes to-day. Eh, 
 Nan ?" 
 
 Mrs. Granniss toddled good-naturedly after him, and 
 seated herself in a deep, cane-bottomed chair on the 
 clematis-empurpled porch. Kenyon placed the child in 
 the hammock, and, swaying her to and fro, began to sing 
 in his soft, rich voice a Tyrolean lullaby. His eyes fol- 
 lowed, for a moment, Constance Herriott strolling about 
 with Marjorie and Dr. Granniss. A smile played over 
 his mouth when he noted the reverend gentleman's court- 
 liness; he held his hat in his hand as they walked under 
 the shadowy trees, the sunlight sifting in rifts upon his 
 silvery hair. 
 
 " Look at my -dear doctor, Mr. Kenyon," said Mrs. 
 Granniss, in guileless, childlike pride, speaking in a low 
 
63 
 
 tone as she noticed that Nan slept. " Do you observe 
 how he holds his hat in his hand when he talks to Con- 
 stance Herriott? That is to show his deference. He 
 used to do the same when he met her mother. He would 
 actually stand bareheaded on Market Street while he 
 talked to her, until the dear lady begged him to cover 
 his head. He worshipped that woman, and he showed 
 it ; but as to being jealous, I should have as soon thought 
 of being jealous of his worship of God. And he has 
 passed on the feeling to her daughter. I verily believe 
 he would do anything short of crime for that girl. And 
 no wonder just look at her." 
 
 His eyes turned with a slow, tender light toward Con- 
 stance disappearing at a turn with the child and the old 
 man. A shower of leaves startled them. Eleanor had 
 slipped from her perch and vanished like a flash. 
 
 "That girl is a veritable Jack-o'-Lantern," observed 
 Mrs. Granniss, in a perplexed tone. 
 
 " And she she is like yonder peace," thought Hall 
 Kenyon, raising his eyes to the broad, tender blue over- 
 head, where a single, slow-moving gull soared into the 
 distance like a dream of infinity. 
 
 " It has been a beautiful day," said little Nan, when 
 he kissed her good-bye. 
 
 " And in a few days," he said to Constance, as she 
 turned to join the others, " I am coming to read my last 
 chapters. I have come to the end of the story." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 IT was the first rain of the season. It had been com- 
 ing down all day with the mad fury which follows long 
 restraint. As night set in the storm gathered in in- 
 tensity ; or is it only the stillness of the night which 
 brings into such powerful prominence the clamor of the 
 elements warring with dumb nature and the silent mani- 
 festations of human creation ? The weird grandeur was 
 reminiscent of Wagner. The Herriotts, singing in their 
 firelit drawing-room, raised their voices to the utmost 
 volume to drown the tumult without. 
 
 Eleanor, sitting near the fireplace, wrapped in a fleecy 
 white shawl, appeared relieved when the singing ceased. 
 Her face was pale, her eyes heavy ; she was suffering 
 with a severe cold which she had brought home with 
 her from Sausalito. 
 
 Edith had thrown herself at full length on the hearth- 
 rug, Grace had picked up a volume of Tennyson ready 
 to read an exquisite fragment from the " Idyls," and 
 Constance was just about going up-stairs with the chil- 
 dren when Brunton came in. 
 
 " No, I won't sit down," he said, in answer to their 
 vociferations. " I just came in to tell you that I shall 
 call for you to-morrow evening for the Ferris dinner, if 
 you have made no other arrangements." He stood near 
 the door in his heavy water-coat, and looked at Con- 
 stance. . 
 
65 
 
 " I had made no arrangements. Thanks, Geoffrey ; it 
 will be pleasant going with you. But why do you 
 venture out in the storm merely to deliver a message 
 when you have no intention of staying ?" 
 
 " I have an engagement with a fellow at my club. 
 You do look snug and cosey." His eye swept about the 
 group. " What is the matter, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " I have a cold." 
 
 " Well, coddle it. Nan has a pretty winter rose in 
 either cheek, I see. I assure you this room is a power- 
 ful antithesis to the unhappy night. I hope you don't 
 "depreciate your good-luck in being all safe together." 
 
 "Stay and 'reminisce' with us, Geoffrey," begged 
 Edith. 
 
 " I should like to, but I am dragged from you by the 
 teeth of my appointment. Well, good-night." 
 
 In the hall he stopped to put on his mackintosh. 
 
 " Go back into the room while I open the door, Con- 
 stance," he said, picking up his hat and umbrella. 
 
 "Geoffrey," she replied, with a little pucker of the 
 brows, " you are looking ill. What is the matter with 
 you?" 
 
 " Eh ? Want of grit, I suppose." He opened the 
 door hurriedly, and stood on the step to open his um- 
 brella. 
 
 " I wish you would take half as good care of yourself 
 as you do of others." She held the door open, the flick- 
 ering gaslight from the hall falling upon his thin, plain 
 face as he looked into her earnest eyes. 
 
 " Do you ?" he asked, with a sudden, unexpected, hard 
 laugh. "What for?" Before she could reply he had 
 lifted his hat and gone down the steps. 
 
66 
 
 " Let us go to bed, too, Edith," said Grace, after a lit- 
 tle, when Constance had gone off with the children. " I 
 love to lie in bed and listen to the rain. Come along, 
 Ede." 
 
 And presently Eleanor found herself alone. The 
 stress of the storm had beat her into apathy, and her 
 heavy eyes closed. 
 
 A few minutes later Kenyon came into the room. The 
 maid, recognizing him, had told him that the family was 
 in here, and he walked in without ceremony. 
 
 He was disconcerted when he found himself alone 
 with the sleeping girl ; but she would waken soon, he 
 thought, and Miss Herriott would probably be in in a 
 few minutes. 
 
 He picked up the volume of Tennyson which Grace 
 had thrown down, arid seated himself at some distance. 
 The book was open where the girl had been reading. 
 Glancing casually through the lines, he lingered with a 
 smile over the closing stanza, where the poet's pen had 
 rounded the picture with an irrepressible note of passion : 
 
 " A man had given all other bliss, 
 And all his worldly worth for this, 
 To waste his whole heart in one kiss 
 Upon her perfect lips." 
 
 Dreamily his eyes fell upon the face of the girl before 
 him. Her red, flower-like lips were slightly parted ; the 
 heat of the fire had flung a velvet rose upon her cheek ; 
 her bright, bronze hair, loosely braided together, fell 
 soft about her face. The words of the poet echoed sub- 
 tly as he suddenly felt her witching beauty; yet the 
 feeling was simply appreciative something had gone 
 
67 
 
 from him to make the sensation a temptation. As he 
 looked her eyelids fluttered, and his eyes fell quickly 
 again upon the page. When he glanced up he saw that 
 she was intently regarding him. He arose at once. 
 
 " Are you not well, Miss Eleanor ?" he asked, coming 
 toward her, and holding out his hand deferentially. 
 
 " I caught cold over at Sausalito the other day," she 
 replied, letting her lingers touch his for the space of a 
 second. 
 
 " That is too bad. It seems as though I were always 
 to be the cause of some discomfiture to you. I am 
 heartily sorry for it. You will end by avoiding me as 
 you would the plague." 
 
 "My mental constitution is in good sanitary condi- 
 tion. I am not afraid of you," was the rejoinder. 
 " And as to plagues, the only ones to be avoided are 
 those which leave one unsightly." 
 
 "And those which hurl you away without warning?" 
 
 " Good and welcome. They are the most considerate 
 of friends. The best deaths are like dawning early, 
 and soon over." 
 
 " Very well and young people feel quite brave in mak- 
 ing grimaces at death it is a remote contingency with 
 them. Now I feel rather diffident about going hence. 
 I like novelty, but not shocks. If I am going to enter- 
 tain the kingly stranger I should like to be prepared. I 
 should wish the feast to be in keeping with the guest. 
 Fact is, Miss Eleanor, I believe I'm not good enough to 
 die." He was laughing down at her, amused with her 
 moody talk. 
 
 "Pooh! Good enough?" she retorted, cynically. 
 " For what ? to turn to dust 3" 
 
68 
 
 " Listen," he said, swiftly. As lie spoke, the low, 
 rumbling thunder approached like a mighty voice, rolled 
 into the distance, and died in the incessant swish of the 
 rain. Eleanor turned pale. 
 
 " The Valkyries are making a night of it," he observed, 
 lightly, and just then Constance entered. At sight of 
 Kenyon she started in surprise. 
 
 " I did not know you were here," she said, meeting 
 him with gentle composure. " I am half glad and half 
 angry to see you. Only extreme friendliness or extreme 
 carelessness would bring you out on such a night." 
 
 " I told you I was coming," he replied, in a low voice, 
 drawing up a chair for her. 
 
 "Ah yes, with the last chapters. Have you them 
 with you?" She looked up at him eagerly. She no- 
 ticed that he was pale, and her heart smote her with 
 an inexplicable foreboding. "Sit down," she added, 
 quickly. 
 
 " This is a good seat, Mr. Kenyon," cut in Eleanor, 
 rising, as he turned for a chair. 
 
 " Where are you going?" asked Constance, hurriedly. 
 
 "To entertain myself. I have been inconsiderate too 
 long already." 
 
 "Don't go," said Constance, putting her hand on her 
 shoulder impulsively. " Mr. Kenyon will postpone his 
 reading. We must amuse Eleanor to-night," she added, 
 turning to where he stood resting his hand on a chair. 
 " She is not well." 
 
 " Nonsense," asserted Eleanor, with a harsh laugh. 
 " I draw the line at being the party of the third part. 
 Besides, I would not postpone Mr. Kenyon's reading for 
 the world. Let go, Constance." 
 
" Do stay, Miss Eleanor," said Kenyon, with abrupt 
 earnestness. His glance swept past Constance with 
 studied nonchalance. He meant her to stay now, and his 
 voice was almost commanding. " If it will not be too irk- 
 some for you, I should like to have you listen. Will you?" 
 
 " You put it so that one cannot refuse," she said, re- 
 seating herself somewhat dazedly. She was dimly con- 
 scious that she was being made a cat's-paw of, that she 
 was to be used as a blind wall between two forces which 
 threatened to meet. 
 
 " Will you give your sister the points of the plot, 
 Miss Herriott ?" he asked with marked carelessness, as 
 he busied himself with his note -book. His tone cut 
 Constance rudely. She looked at him in fleet reproach; 
 He did not return the glance. Eleanor's narrowing eyes 
 were upon them with instinctive bitterness. In a low 
 voice Constance commenced to tell the story. Kenyon's 
 hands ceased to turn the leaves while he listened to her 
 full voice, repeating his thoughts, his play of imagina- 
 tion. She spoke concisely, but with the clearness of 
 perfect knowledge. 
 
 " Do you quite understand, Miss Eleanor ?" he asked, 
 when Constance paused. 
 
 " Quite," she returned, with brilliant, excited eyes. 
 
 " Then I shall finish." He picked up the manuscript, 
 the beat of annoyance dying out of his voice as he read. 
 Constance sat quite still. His manner had silenced her 
 effectually. Only Eleanor, roused to feverish excitement, 
 seemed to vibrate under his words. 
 
 " Well ?" he demanded, when he had finished. He 
 regarded Eleanor unseeingly ; he was conscious only of 
 Constance's statuesque face beside her. 
 
70 
 
 There was a long pause. Eleanor's fingers locked and 
 unlocked themselves as if struggling to say something. 
 
 " It is clever," she said, in a slow, restrained manner 
 which belied her face. " And you are kind to give it a 
 happy ending, but it is not at all natural." 
 
 " Why not ?" He shifted .his position, partly turning 
 from Constance, and getting a fuller view of the younger 
 girl. 
 
 " Your heroine could not have married Atwyn and 
 have loved him, as you lead us to infer." 
 
 " Why not?" 
 
 " She loved Carruthers." 
 
 " But Carruthers was dead." 
 
 " His death is nothing. A woman can love only once." 
 
 " Is she as poor as that ?" 
 
 " Yes, and as strong." 
 
 " I think you must admit that example goes to prove 
 that a woman can love and forget, if put to the test." 
 
 " Not if she really loved. Real love is not a possi- 
 bility with every woman, you know. She might marry 
 another, but not love him as you say that girl loved. 
 Love has no duplicates. There is the original. All the 
 other forms are something paler and less." 
 
 " But," he insisted, " women marry for love after a 
 disappointment." 
 
 " There is a slight distinction. You do not make it. 
 They may marry for love, but not out of love." 
 
 "That is sad. Is there then no cure for love un- 
 realized ?" 
 
 She looked past him dreamily. 
 
 " Shall I answer with a bit of fantasy ?" 
 
 " How ?" 
 
71 
 
 "Listen." She flung her arms over her head in a 
 manner peculiarly her own. She was intoxicated with 
 the knowledge that she was holding his attention for 
 almost the first time without the fractious sparring into 
 which they had always fallen. 
 
 " I'll put it in the form of narrative. Let us call it 
 * Love's Antidote for Women.' " She paused for a 
 fleeting second, and then dashed on. "This is how it 
 was discovered : There was once a beautiful woman 
 whom I shall call well, the Lady Margaret. One day 
 her people noticed that she had grown strangely weary. 
 Quite suddenly it dawned upon them, and they put out 
 their hands as if to stay her, for she had grown frail as 
 well. Then, because they loved her, they called in phy- 
 sicians. They shook their heads and departed there 
 was no ailment. But one, more wise than the rest, said, 
 1 This is not of the body ! I cannot minister to a dying 
 heart ! You must wean her from herself interest her, 
 distract her.' It was easily said, and they thought to 
 carry it out as easily. But all their efforts proved un- 
 availing. Daily she grew more listless, more intangible, 
 more removed. And one day, through chance, they 
 discovered that it was the shadow of a great love which 
 hung over her a love for one who had proved un- 
 worthy. Then, by hints and innuendoes, by open tales 
 of his egoism and profligacy, they strove to dispel the 
 charm which invested him in her heart. But she looked 
 at them with sad, indulgent eyes and the shafts fell at 
 their own feet. So one day, when she sat in the midst 
 of sunshine and roses, there came up the sunlit path a 
 peddler with his pack. He was brown as a bronze, slim 
 and straight as an arrow ; around his head was twisted a 
 
red silk scarf, and she knew he was of the Orient. 
 Silently his pack slid to the grass, and he, beside it, 
 opened to her view his store of treasures : silks soft 
 and lustrous as the sun, broideries stiff and gorgeous 
 with gold, dimities fit for a fairy, ivories carved as with 
 a lace needle. But she only looked, and said nothing. 
 And when he had come to the end, still silently he put 
 them back, and rose and stood before her like a gleam- 
 ing bronze, and looked upon her spiritual beauty. Then, 
 stooping, he laid something within her hand, and, like a 
 dream of mysticism, passed down the sunlit path. Cu- 
 riously, then, she looked at that which she held. It was 
 a dainty ivory box, upon the face of which were carved 
 the words: 'Love's Antidote for Women.' With a 
 look of wonder she lifted the lid. Within, exquisitely 
 wrought in ivory, lay a tiny skull and cross-bones. 
 The Lady Margaret let her hands fall in her lap. She 
 smiled, and waited." 
 
 Eleanor ceased to speak, but did not look at Kenyon. 
 
 " You improvise admirably. That is a pretty conceit, 
 but the ending is too sad," he remarked, finally. 
 
 "I said she smiled. Is that sad?" 
 
 After a pause he spoke again, glancing swiftly from 
 Constance's slightly flushed face to this new interlocutor. 
 
 " I wonder how many women would agree to the 
 truth of your conception. I am going to ask you a per- 
 tinent question. Do you speak from experience or 
 imagination ?" 
 
 " From neither. I speak from conviction." 
 
 " Ah ! But convictions are relative, not to be taken 
 as axioms. Will you let me criticise now ? The in- 
 scription on the box was too wordy." 
 
73 
 
 " In what respect ?" 
 
 " You unnecessarily added * For women.' It holds as 
 well for men." 
 
 " I do not think so. It is woman's one coffer. Man's 
 love has departments." 
 
 " Pardon me, you know nothing about it." 
 
 "And you?" she asked, rising and regarding him 
 rather defiantly. " Do you speak from experience or 
 imagination ?" 
 
 His face flamed hotly, he caught his breath hard. 
 " From neither," he replied " from conviction." 
 
 Whereupon they both laughed. It is a strangely ac- 
 commodating thing, a laugh ; it covers many an awkward 
 heart secret. Under its cloak Eleanor left the room. 
 
 She sped up-stairs to her own room, shut and locked 
 the door, and leaned against it as if some one were at- 
 tempting an entrance. She became conscious that she 
 was breathing heavily, and she strove to quiet herself by 
 closing her eyes ; the effort was useless. She moved 
 over to her bureau and groped for a match. Finding 
 none, she stood still in the dark. 
 
 "Why did I tell it?" she muttered. "Why could I 
 not control myself ? Why could I not cover my heart by 
 keeping still ? Must my mouth always betray me ? Does 
 he know ? Does he surmise ? Is he laughing at me or 
 pitying me ? Oh, merciful oblivion, don't let me think !" 
 She brought her fist down fiercely against the bedpost. 
 It was merely another woman groaning over impulsive 
 words spoken past recall ; it was merely tardy pride upon 
 the rack of remorse. 
 
 Presently her face ceased to quiver; a listening, stealthy 
 stillness enveloped her from head to foot. " What is he 
 
74 
 
 saying to her?" was the slow thought which took pos- 
 session of her. " I know. I could see it in his face. And 
 she ? What,will she answer? I must know I shall know." 
 
 The stealthy stillness communicated itself to her move- 
 ments. She drew the shawl over her head, carefully 
 unlocked her door, and passed out. Like a noiseless 
 somnambulist she glided down the stairs, the stealthy 
 stillness rising to cunning care in her young, impassioned 
 face. Still creeping, she passed down the long hallway, 
 entered the darkened library, and drew near the heavy 
 folding - doors dividing it from the drawing-room. A 
 line ,of light escaped between the locks. Slowly sinking 
 to her knees, she looked in. It was the first low act 
 Eleanor Herriott had ever committed. Passionate, ca- 
 pricious, vain, she may have been ; but hitherto she had 
 been too brave to stoop to tell even a childish lie. And 
 yet, as she crouched there, she was utterly insensible to 
 the fact that she was debasing her finer instincts. She 
 was in torture, and torture, whether of mind or body, 
 means distortion. 
 
 She saw the two, still seated where she had left them. 
 She could distinctly discern their every movement, dis- 
 tinctly hear their every word. Constance was speaking 
 with unusual volubility. 
 
 " So I decided to let her remain home to-day. You 
 have no idea what a boy Edith is. Happening to glance 
 out of the window during the morning, I saw her making 
 her way through the mud on little Teddie Barlow's stilts, 
 looking as happy as the first bird who has espied the first 
 leaf of spring. She is so happy when she is mischievous 
 that my reprimands always sound cruel. But what can 
 I do ?" 
 
75 
 
 No answer. She hurriedly continued : 
 
 " I have never seen it rain so steadily. Listen. It 
 seems to be slackening." 
 
 It was ; the sound came fitfully now like a tired child 
 sobbing wearily in his sleep ; the wind wailed eeriely in 
 a witch-like interlude. 
 
 Constance moved uneasily. The watching girl on the 
 other side of the door noticed, with the keenness of jeal- 
 ousy, the queenly head, the full, perfect figure, the white 
 symmetry of the firm hands. Kenyon sat quietly before 
 her, his dark, clear-cut face bereft of its warm under- 
 glow. 
 
 "And will you send the book off at once?" she asked, 
 desperately. 
 
 " That depends." 
 
 "Upon what?" 
 
 " Upon you." 
 
 " Oh, I beg of you, do not burden me with the respon- 
 sibility. What more can I do than to hope that others 
 will look upon it as favorably as I? Have I not criti- 
 cised and made myself as disagreeable as the most dis- 
 passionate of reviewers ? Have I not told you wherein 
 I find it fine, interesting, and moving ? What more can 
 I possibly say ?" 
 
 " Constance." 
 
 At the low call, so full of intensity that it seemed life- 
 less, the light left her face it was waxen. She put up 
 her hand. 
 
 "Hush!" she commanded. 
 
 " I have spoken. I am waiting for your answer." 
 
 She looked at him fearfully. She knew that all had 
 been implied when he spoke her name. They had both 
 
76 
 
 reached that stage of intuition where higher thoughts 
 
 O O O 
 
 require no verbal medium to make them understood. 
 
 " You must not," she breathed, almost mechanically. 
 
 " You speak too late." 
 
 " We were friends." 
 
 " Never." 
 
 He arose, the restraint he had put upon himself well- 
 nigh suffocating him. 
 
 " I have never been your friend," he said, the hot blood 
 rising to his temples, his eyes dangerously bright. " I 
 have loved you since the moment I met you. Let me 
 confess. I did not want your friendship. I did not 
 need it. Men could suffice me there. I wanted you, 
 your love, your tenderness, your womanhood. Friend- 
 ship ? Are you so utterly blind to yourself as to think 
 any man could be to you as I have been and not be- 
 come your lover? Must I tell you that you have be- 
 come my very life and senses? that I walk, talk, think, 
 sleep, breathe, with but your image before me ? Answer 
 me. Did you not know this ?" 
 
 His imperious, impassioned voice ceased ; there was a 
 breathless pause. The girl crouching, sick and numb, 
 behind the door put her hand to her throat she was 
 choking. 
 
 "No," answered Constance, in slow, painful precision, 
 " I did not know ! If I had known, honor would have 
 forbidden me to look upon you long ago. Was it not 
 clear to you, did no one ever tell you, that I am 
 pledged?" 
 
 " Pledged !" he echoed. 
 
 " Yes ; pledged to these children." 
 
 He looked at her without comprehension. 
 
 
77 
 
 " Did you not know," she went on, in gentle quiet, the 
 effort of making herself quite clear bringing out the 
 words in strange slowness, " that years ago *I made a 
 promise to my own dear mother never to leave them ? 
 That they are my children now ? That Constance Her- 
 riott's life is not hers to give to any man ?" 
 
 A smile lit up the pallor of his face. "Ah, Constance," 
 he said, " the age of martyrs is past. You take your 
 promise too severely, surely not as the mother who loved 
 you intended. They can still be your children you 
 need never leave them." 
 
 " It would not be the same," she said, drawing back 
 unconsciously. " They would be pushed aside by an- 
 other. Forgive me I thought you knew. I meant to 
 be your friend." 
 
 " No," he said, moving nearer, " no. You know that 
 is false. I know and you know that you love me." 
 
 She sprang to her feet, her chair rolling, from her vio- 
 lence, to the other end of the room. She confronted 
 him, white and forbidding. 
 
 " You are mistaken," she said, with the hauteur of a 
 queen. " Your own conceit has deceived you. And 
 I must ask you to leave me." 
 
 He made a movement toward her, but the icy chill of 
 her attitude, the calm, menacing eyes rooted him where 
 he stood. His face was ashen. 
 
 " Tell me," he said, through parched lips, " are you a 
 woman, after all ? You lead a man to love you with the 
 desperation of life, and then calmly stand there and say 
 you have nothing to do with his love. You are as hard 
 as granite. You have no pity. You look at stars, and 
 trample the flowers under your feet. Your virtue is so 
 
78 
 
 high that you have ceased to be human. You should 
 not tamper with the earthly heart of a man you, who 
 are of stone." 
 
 She stood quite still under his mad revilings, her 
 bloodless, dispassionate face never flinching. Suddenly 
 he held out his hands in agony. 
 
 " Constance," he entreated, " consider. You will not 
 wreck my whole life for me. I I shall make you so 
 happy !" 
 
 She stood white and moveless. " I have told you al- 
 ready," she uttered, in almost a monotone, " that I could 
 not and I would not be your wife. You say you love 
 me. It is fancy, an infatuation. I am older than you 
 at least, through circumstance. You are a boy to me. 
 It would be like tying a kite to a stone. You would 
 have soon tired. I am sorry that we ever met. I can 
 never be more to you than I am now." She held out 
 her hand. He looked at her still in agonized incompre- 
 hension. She met his eyes with sad, immovable firm- 
 ness. Suddenly divining her attitude, a sneer escaped 
 him. The next instant he sprang forward and caught 
 her to him. For a second, as his lips touched hers, 
 Constance Herriott's life ceased to be. Then, with the 
 strength of a man, she pushed him from her. 
 
 "Go," she muttered, hoarsely. 
 
 " God forgive you," he whispered, incoherently. " I 
 shall never look upon your face again." 
 
 He turned from her. A moment later she heard the 
 outer door close. She stood with bowed head under the 
 gaslight, moveless as if carven. 
 
 " I hate her," murmured Eleanor, watching her breath- 
 
79 
 
 Suddenly, in the intense quiet, down through the halls 
 there floated a soft, bird-like voice : 
 
 " Constance," it called, " Constance dear." 
 
 From the still figure there came a shuddering moan. 
 She raised her head as if regarding something, her .lips 
 moved as if in prayer. 
 
 " Forgive me," she murmured, "forgive me. I forgot ; 
 but only for a second only for a second, mother." 
 
 " Constance, Constance," called the voice. 
 
 " Yes, Nan ; yes, my child ; Constance is coming." 
 
 Up the stairs she moved quickly. 
 
 " Were you frightened, Nan ?" she asked, bending 
 over the little one. 
 
 Nan did not answer. She lay in a listening attitude 
 for a moment she had heard something besides her sis- 
 ter's low words. And the little hand went up to stroke 
 the cold, white cheek, and the well-remembered words 
 were softly whispered, in great trouble as in small : 
 
 " Never mind ; oh, Constance, never mind." 
 
 Five minutes later a white, creeping shadow entered 
 the room beyond. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE clouds had beat themselves empty. The next 
 day dawned rainless and dull, though the wind still blew 
 stiffly. 
 
 " Eleanor is late this morning," said Constance, at the 
 breakfast-table. 
 
 "She came into our room before we were up, to say 
 she had a headache and did not wish to be disturbed," 
 said Grace, looking curiously at Constance. " But I con- 
 fess, Constance," she exclaimed, uncontrollably, " you 
 look fully as bad as she did." 
 
 " I did not sleep well," replied Constance, turning to 
 pull down Edith's jacket as the latter stood drawing on 
 her gloves, ready for school. She had known that the 
 blue shadows about her weary eyes would not pass un- 
 remarked. Members of a large family must always hold 
 themselves in readiness for this sort of inquisition. 
 
 " Put on your overshoes, Edith," she said, looking the 
 girl over carefully, "and ask Miss Temple to send me a 
 report of your progress in mathematics. There is no 
 necessity for me to call just now, is there ?" 
 
 " No," replied Edith, hastily dismissing the subject, 
 " none at all. What is this queer little book ? I found 
 it on the cabinet in the drawing-room this morning." 
 
 She held out a small brown note - book, which Con- 
 stance instantly recognized as the one from which Kenyon 
 had read. 
 
81 
 
 " It is Mr. Kenyon's," she returned, taking it from her 
 and placing it upon the table. " He must have forgotten 
 it," she continued, as she opened an egg with a steady 
 spoon. " I shall send it to him this morning." 
 
 "Wait till to-morrow," Grace laughingly advised. 
 " He will surely be around for it." Constance salted 
 her egg and said nothing. 
 
 After breakfast she softly tried Eleanor's door. The 
 key was turned, and, receiving no answer, she surmised 
 that she slept, and went away. Twice during the morn- 
 ing she repeated the attempt with the same result. Tow- 
 ard noon she became alarmed, and decided to waken her. 
 
 " Eleanor !" she called, shaking the door. " Eleanor, 
 wake up !" 
 
 " What do you want ?" asked a muffled voice. 
 
 " It is almost noon, dear. How are you?" 
 
 " Better." 
 
 " Won't you open the door ? I want to see you." 
 
 " Don't bother, please. All I want is to lie still. Do 
 go away." 
 
 " Open the door, Eleanor. You speak as though you 
 were ill. Besides, you must eat something." 
 
 " Tell Betty to bring me a cup of tea, then." 
 
 At the ungracious words Constance turned and went 
 down-stairs. She returned soon after with a tempting 
 salver, and, finding the door unlocked, went in. The 
 tray almost slipped from her hands when her eyes fell 
 upon her sister's face. It was sallow and worn, as though 
 she had been through great suffering. 
 
 " I shall send for the doctor, Eleanor," she said with 
 determination, while she carefully arranged the table at 
 the side of the bed. " You look wretched," 
 
82 
 
 " It is nothing but my cold," replied the other, shortly, 
 without looking at her. "And you need not send for 
 the doctor, as I shall not see him. I'll lock the door if I 
 hear him coming. I'll drink this tea, and then try to 
 sleep again. You need not wait." 
 
 " Let me sit beside you. I promise not to talk." 
 
 " You annoy me. Please go." 
 
 She had not glanced at her. A wondering chill over- 
 spread Constance's body. Rebuffs are hard when one is 
 seeking comfort. She looked at her wistfully, and bent 
 to kiss her. Eleanor turned her face away. 
 
 " You might catch the cold," she murmured. 
 
 Constance straightened herself. " You are very cross 
 this morning," she said, half tremulously, half play- 
 fully. "Well, I shall not tease. Eat the toast, and 
 perhaps you will feel more amiable after you have 
 slept." 
 
 She got Nan ready in the afternoon to take her to the 
 doctor's, as usual. 
 
 " What are you going to wear to the Ferris dinner to- 
 night?" asked Grace, before they went. Constance started. 
 Was it only yesterday that Brunton had been in ? The 
 tragedy of one moment had dimmed what had immedi- 
 ately preceded it with the distance of years. 
 
 " Oh yes," she replied. " Tell Betty to lay out my 
 gray crepe." 
 
 They had been gone about a half hour when Grace, 
 who was seated in the nursery with Marjorie and Betty, 
 was startled at the sight of Eleanor standing in the 
 doorway in hat and jacket. 
 
 " Why, Eleanor !" she exclaimed. 
 
 " I'm going down to see Mrs. Vassault," returned El- 
 
eanor, in a low, cool voice. " She has not been very well 
 since her return." 
 
 "But with your cold!" remonstrated Grace, utterly 
 taken aback. " It is very unpleasant out. If Con- 
 stance were home she would forbid your stirring from 
 the house." 
 
 " I am able to take care of myself," was the cutting 
 reply. " Good-bye." She walked swiftly over to where 
 Marjorie sat on the floor surrounded by toys, and gave 
 her a close but hasty kiss. 
 
 "Take me with you," begged the child, throwing her 
 doll aside and scrambling to her feet. 
 
 " No, no, Marjorie ; little girls don't go where I am 
 going. You be good, and play house with Grace and 
 Constance." 
 
 " Constance is out," averred Marjorie, in a puzzled, 
 resentful voice. 
 
 " Oh, she'll come back she always does. You can 
 always count on Constance. But give Eleanor a kiss. 
 Good-bye, sweetheart." 
 
 The next minute she was gone. Marjorie resumed her 
 doll and Grace her book. 
 
 " Miss Eleanor walks like the wind," remarked Betty, 
 standing by the window with her sewing in her hand. 
 Grace came to her side, and watched the graceful figure 
 in sealskin jacket and simple brown dress moving fleetly 
 up the street. " She's here and gone, and you're never 
 sure of her. When you think you've got her tearing at 
 your back, she's laughing in your face. Well I mind 
 me of the day your blessed mother went, when Riley and 
 me Riley was the coachman, my dear Miss Grace you 
 kept a coachman then, along with other good things 
 
84 
 
 when Riley and me found her sitting in a corner with 
 her little apron over her head, crying, and rocking back- 
 wards and forwards as if her little body were like to 
 burst with the storm inside her, like a balloon that's 
 blowed too high ; and then of a sudden, when Riley 
 downs on his knees before her and begs her to stop, 
 saying, Don't, now don't, little lady,' she takes her 
 apron down from her head, and looks at him, and bursts 
 out laughing, because, 'Oh, Riley,' she cries, 'you've 
 got the funniest nose I ever did see ; it's just like the top 
 of a crutch !' And she laughed and laughed, and Riley 
 was mighty proud to think he had such a handy nose as 
 could make a girl laugh when she was nigh to dying of 
 sorrow. And I says to him, ' Riley,' says I, ' that there 
 hitch in your nose is a Godsend.' And I suppose every 
 hitch we meet is put there a-purpose to bring somebody 
 up short on the road they shouldn't be taking." 
 
 " Eleanor is quick," said Grace, " but she's all right." 
 
 " Oh, her heart is in the right spot," acquiesced the 
 
 old nurse, as she creased a hem. " But sometimes it's 
 
 out walking when it should be in just as she is doing 
 
 now." 
 
 Eleanor walked like the wind. Turning the corner, 
 she kept straight ahead. Under her veil her eyes and 
 mouth looked stern and repellent. Had she been com- 
 manded to divulge her destination she would have been 
 compelled to reply, like the weary worldling of old, 
 " Anywhere out of the world." She longed to get as 
 far from the reach of people and observation as she 
 could. Wretchedness and crime are alike in this isola- 
 tion is their desired goal. She walked westward, regard- 
 less of the space of time and ground she was leaving 
 
85 
 
 behind her. Only to get away to get away, in the vain 
 hope of getting away from herself ! And now she had 
 passed out into the country. Sandhills and trees, nature 
 unmolested travelled beside her. Still on she went, the 
 trees growing more frequent, more regular, and presently 
 she found herself near the entrance to Golden Gate 
 Park. Three hackmen and a mounted policeman stood 
 in the gateway. They arrested her attention. The fact 
 of the distance she had reached assailed her grimly. 
 " I'll go to the end," she thought, and she turned tow- 
 ard the beach cars. Five minutes later the salt breeze 
 struck sharply into her face she was steaming along to 
 the ocean. On sped the cars ; past trackless stretches 
 of sand-dunes, swept smooth and white as the hand by 
 the winds of yesterday, the young pines and eucalypti 
 rising along their embankments in stripling slenderness. 
 And ever the salt breeze lashed her face and stung her 
 eyes, and the whistling steam harked eeriely back to her 
 as she sat alone in the open tram. She alighted with a 
 sense of freedom. She walked quickly down the rocky 
 road, and at last at last she had reached the sands of 
 the ocean. How it boomed ! 
 
 She stood alone. The Cliff House rose at her right, 
 silent and bleak ; to her left, along the sinuous sweep 
 of sand, not a living thing was in sight ; before her was 
 the dim, misty stretch of limitless ocean. Now and then 
 the hawking of the seals from their distant rocks reached 
 her dimly through the thunderous clamor of waters. 
 The slow, heavy billows swelled toward her, seething 
 far above her head, and as they broke madly at her feet, 
 curled backward, hissing like angry serpents which were 
 swallowed like froth in the cavernous depths of the mon- 
 
86 
 
 ster breakers foaming to the shore. Roar and boom and 
 swish, as the boiling waves dashed themselves in con- 
 tinuous fury against the cliffs and rocks toward the 
 north. And presently she forgot the noise ; its wild di- 
 apason no longer had meaning for her. Only before her, 
 as far as eye could travel, north, west, south, spread the 
 great ocean, meeting the gray horizon in a line of silver. 
 
 As she looked the fever left her ; the stern, repellent 
 look in her eyes changed to one of weary sadness. " Oh," 
 she thought, "to be free like that, to expand like that, 
 and still be sentient. To float into an infinity without 
 limitation, without end, free from fret and care, rid of 
 humanity ! To comprehend and to be uncomprehended, 
 a soul, a spirit, asking nothing for nothing should be 
 wanted. To know no longing 1" Unconsciously her feet 
 moved to the tide. It drew her like a magnet; she 
 moved as if asleep, her eyes on the line of silver. Al- 
 most, and Eleanor Herriott would have passed out. Some- 
 thing crossed her line of vision the dark figure of a 
 man moving along the sands. She knew him on the in- 
 stant. It was Kenyon. 
 
 " No, no," she murmured, shrinking back in wild re- 
 vulsion. " Not while he lives !" 
 
 She stood still, out of the reach of the waves, and 
 looked with a pale, wondering face upon him. He was 
 not three yards from her. He stood looking out, a tall, 
 strong figure with folded arms. What was he doing 
 here on this dark, blustering day ? Why had he come ? 
 The question was confronted by another : why had she 
 come ? Her heart gave a wild bound. She felt herself 
 growing intent and still. The next minute she had ap- 
 proached to within a foot. She looked at him with 
 
87 
 
 quick comprehension, yet never had she seen such 
 change wrought upon the human countenance in the 
 space of a night. He was quite ghastly with the 
 ghastliness of cold ashes where a glowing fire had been 
 alight. His eyes were dark as dead embers, the corners 
 of his nose pinched and drawn, his lips close -pressed 
 and dry, his chin looked hard and resolute as a bulwark. 
 There was not the shadow of an emotion upon him, only 
 the cold, indelible imprint of a great tragedy. 
 
 She had known he would take it hard ; they were too 
 much akin for her to delude herself with a contrary be- 
 lief. She had known he would revolt as only those who 
 have never been denied anything will revolt when a 
 great demand is ignored ; but she was not prepared for 
 the devastation of all hope upon his beaten face. 
 
 He was quite unconscious of her proximity ; not a 
 sound, not a movement escaped him. She longed yet 
 feared to have him make some sign of consciousness. 
 She was startled when the sign came the cold, deadly 
 sneer which drew out lips and nostrils was an agonizing 
 sight. Presently, as she before had glided down the 
 sand, he moved toward the waters with apparent, de- 
 liberate purpose, in the momentary bravery of reckless 
 cowardice. 
 
 " Mr. Kenyon ! Hall ! Hall !" 
 
 The sharp, clear call, the sudden grasp upon his arm 
 were an unforeseen shock in his disordered mentality. 
 He paused abruptly, turned toward her, and reeled. 
 Her arms went about his shoulders. He leaned uncon- 
 sciously against her in vertigo. The blood rushed in a 
 torrent to his brain and receded as rapidly. 
 
 "Come," she said, her voice rising like a command 
 
above the deep roar of the sea " come away from the 
 waves !" 
 
 At her voice a flutter of consciousness sprang to his 
 face ; he moved mechanically with her. 
 
 "You " He faltered as she paused breathless under 
 his weight. " Why did you come ?" A painful, miser- 
 able hope had leaped into his eyes. 
 
 I I W as here," was the simple answer. 
 
 Revulsion overtook him at once. His eyes closed, he 
 swayed against her. A man on the upper balcony of 
 the Cliff House, sweeping the horizon with a field-glass, 
 suddenly perceived them and let his gaze rest. 
 
 " Two lovers," he conjectured, with a half - smile, 
 " having it out with the breakers. The woman seems 
 to be supporting him, though ! Perhaps he is ill ! 
 Tempted by the waves " He made a hasty movement 
 as if ready to go to her assistance, but paused and con- 
 tinued to observe them with interest. " They are mov- 
 ing away," he commented to himself. " They look like 
 aristocrats, too. A queer situation ! But then one can 
 never be sure of a woman." 
 
 Her skirt trailed along the sand as she led him on. 
 He was giddy in an unconscious whirl; the vertigo 
 had left him weak and helpless. Eleanor Herriott's face 
 was calm and steadfast. She was called upon to help 
 him, and her soul could hold no further thought. 
 
 They made headway toward a cab near the house, 
 the driver of which had just emerged from the bar-room 
 wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The sun 
 was lowering to the ocean, a huge, blood-red ball, sur- 
 rounded by black, volcanic clouds. 
 
 The man touched his hat as the girl accosted him. 
 
89 
 
 " Will you drive us to the Sausalito ferry at once ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 The hackman looked from the calm-faced girl to the 
 handsome, death-like face above her. 
 
 " Yes'm," he said, with alacrity. " Gent sick ?" 
 
 He received no answer, and he lent an assisting hand 
 to Kenyon. 
 
 As he closed the door upon them the sun's ball of 
 blood sank to the waters, staining them with crimson, 
 flushing cliff and house and sands in rosy incandescence, 
 and lighting the heavens with marvellous splendor. But 
 the human actors were no longer in sight. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 " GOOD -NIGHT, dearies," Constance was saying that 
 same evening. She was standing in the dining-room 
 doorway, and smiling upon the little group about the 
 table. " Don't forget anything I have told you. Nan 
 and Marjorie may stay up till half-past eight, and " 
 
 " Say till nine, Constance," broke in Nan, eagerly, 
 laying down her fork. " We are going to pop corn and 
 tell stories. Half-past eight would be just at the begin- 
 ning of the fun." 
 
 " No, Nan, I have given you a half-hour longer than 
 usual ; you must be satisfied. Otherwise you would be 
 worn out to-morrow, and Marjorie would be cross all 
 day." 
 
 " Oh no, we wouldn't ! Truly we wouldn't !" chimed 
 in the two childish voices, half in promise, half in en- 
 treaty. 
 
 " There, there, I said half-past eight. And you must 
 see, Grace, that they are both in bed at just that time." 
 
 Brunton, leaning against the sideboard, looked quiz- 
 zically from the disappointed little faces to that of their 
 guardian in the doorway. She was ready to go ; upon 
 her head and crossed under her chin was a black lace 
 scarf, from the filmy shadow of which her face looked 
 out in calm austerity. 
 
 " Why so impregnable?" he ventured, in an under- 
 tone. 
 
91 
 
 A quick contraction fluttered her nostrils. " It is nec- 
 essary," she answered sharply, moving to leave. She 
 turned back, after making a step. 
 
 " Girls," she said, " tell Eleanor when she comes 
 home that I brought her a volume of short stories from 
 the library ; they are on her table. Tell her that I said 
 that they are very clever and amusing. And, Betty," she 
 added to the maid hovering over the children, " see that 
 Miss Eleanor has a good hot drink when she goes to 
 bed. I am sorry Mrs. Yassault kept her for dinner. 
 Good-night all, again." 
 
 " You see, Eleanor went out this afternoon when I had 
 gone off with Nan," she explained, as Brunton stepped 
 into the carriage after her and the horses started off 
 briskly. " I am afraid her cold will take a relapse. The 
 air is anything but dry." 
 
 "Taking a homoeopathic cure," suggested Brunton, 
 easily, leaning back in the opposite corner. " Eleanor 
 is a fantastic creature, but her little lapses are pardonable 
 on the plea of being committed without premeditation. 
 She reminds me of Kenyon. You remember Kenyon, 
 the writer ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Ah, of course ! He has developed into quite a house- 
 friend, hasn't he 3" 
 
 " We have seen him very often during his stay." 
 
 Brunton looked at her curiously. Was it merely the 
 jolting over the uneven street which caused her quick, 
 short tone ? 
 
 " A most unaccountable fellow Kenyon. Makes an 
 appointment rushes in on the tag end of it, or forgets 
 it entirely in the overwhelming absorption of other in- 
 
92 
 
 terests. But he invariably remembers soon enough to 
 bring a breathless apology which knocks out the rating 
 I have in preparation. It is impossible to do more than 
 swear in the face of his contrition. His personality is 
 magical." 
 
 "Do you ever swear, Geoffrey?" she asked, lightly, 
 curving the subject adroitly. 
 
 " In my better moments. For instance, when I waited 
 a half-hour for Kenyon to-day to come in and sign a 
 deed ; it should have been mailed this evening. lie 
 never made even the ghost of an appearance. There is 
 no excuse, as he was in yesterday, and in a fever-heat 
 to have it consummated." 
 
 " You men always forget to be human when your 
 interests are retarded. Do you ever remember that 
 illness or accident might prove a possible hinder- 
 ance ?" 
 
 " Seldom, when dealing with a man ; never, with one 
 put up as Kenyon is. Now, if I had made the engage- 
 ment with you for to-morrow and you should not mate- 
 rialize, I should hold those dark rings about your eyes 
 to account. Where did you get them ?" 
 
 " In a mental prize-fight. Don't laugh at them ; they 
 are sometimes inseparable parts of the spoils. I suppose 
 we shall have a pleasant evening." 
 
 " Indeed !" he responded, closing his hand tightly as it 
 rested upon his knee. He was barred out ; he was turned 
 from the door of her confidence in a manner curiously 
 unlike herself. 
 
 This was the first invitation he had ever accepted from 
 Mrs. Ferris. He did not like the woman, but he held a 
 genuine admiration for her daughter, which no amount 
 
93 
 
 of maternal propagation could stifle. Looking at Ger- 
 trude Ferris next her mother, it had always remained a 
 wonder that the girl had continued unspoiled. She was 
 gentle, refined, and full of that sweet charity which is the 
 root of as many feminine omissions as commissions. Her 
 mother's small, sharp eyes were like so many antennae, to 
 which no social morsel was too microscopic to be un- 
 worthy her interest and publication. And yet he had to 
 admit that Mrs. Ferris understood the art of entertaining 
 to a fine degree. Her dishes, decorations, service, and 
 guests were chosen with a refinement of knowledge which 
 showed great study, sharp adaptive powers. She told off 
 her guests with a nicety of discrimination which proved 
 her something of a diplomat. Brunton felt a complai- 
 sant pleasure in the fact that Miss Ferris fell to his lot. 
 Had she been a mere pretty girl whose best points were 
 her facial features, she would, of a certainty, have been 
 placed opposite him in the light of an attractive picture, 
 instead of next him in the position of an entertaining 
 companion. Constance, he remarked, was neither within 
 sight nor hearing. She had been apportioned to Garth, 
 the young portrait-painter who had done Mrs. Ferris's 
 head with the accuracy of truth and all the art which 
 discovers extenuating possibilities of beauty in the plain- 
 est subject the refutation of the libel that portrait-paint- 
 ers are independent of fancy. 
 
 Young Garth had been standing near his hostess when 
 Constance entered. His eye had been held on the in- 
 stant by the odd contrast of her pale olive complexion 
 and the pale gold of her hair. Upon being introduced he 
 had addressed some remark to her which arrested her. 
 They had drawn somewhat aside. It happened that Con- 
 
94 
 
 stance, standing talking to him until they went in, paid 
 no attention to the other guests. 
 
 But as they seated themselves at table Constance gave 
 a start ; for there sat Mrs. Vassault, radiant and lovely 
 Mrs. Vassault, Eleanor's friend, opposite, in lively con- 
 verse with her escort ! And the next instant she found 
 herself nodding to Mr. Vassault, a few seats farther on. 
 She looked at the wife and the husband in dismay : if 
 they were here, where was Eleanor ? 
 
 She felt her heart beating anxiously. She tried to com- 
 pose herself with the thought that Eleanor had waited to 
 be driven home in the Vassaults' carriage on their way 
 to the Ferrjses'. She succeeded in lending an attentive 
 ear to Garth, who, being a voluble talker, found himself 
 as much at ease in addressing this statuesquely beautiful 
 woman as if she had been a model whom he was warm- 
 ing to the desired expression. But she listened as idly 
 to his conversation as to the music. Yet Garth found 
 her extremely entertaining, his monology requiring only 
 a good listener who showed no sign of weariness. 
 
 She had to wait. But at length the ladies had filed 
 into the drawing-room again. Quickly Constance ap- 
 proached Mrs. Vassault. 
 
 " Tell me," she began, with a half-smile, " did you not 
 find Eleanor looking rather miserable to-day ?" 
 
 "Eleanor!" repeated Mrs. Vassault, raising her eye- 
 brows and fan at the same time, and wafting a breath of 
 violets as she spoke. " I did not see Eleanor to-day ! I 
 believe that fickle girl is beginning to abandon me ! I 
 have seen so little of her since our return." 
 
 " Ah," returned Constance, feeling her limbs suddenly 
 grow heavy and cold beneath her. " I thought she said 
 
95 
 
 she was going to visit you this afternoon. I must have 
 misunderstood her." 
 
 There was some mistake some accident or trouble. 
 She must see Geoffrey at once. She glanced around ; 
 he was not in sight. And now she felt herself grow- 
 ing white and excited. Ah ! there was Geoffrey, at the 
 other end of the long room. She would go to him 
 and tell him her anxiety. With a murmured word of 
 apology to her companion, she turned into the near con- 
 servatory. 
 
 The perfumed air enveloped her languorously as she 
 moved over the floor. She had almost reached the door 
 when it was flung open, and Charlie Ferris stepped in. 
 He was a young, bright-looking lad of seventeen, clad in 
 an old shooting-jacket and spattered leather breeches. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Herriott !" he exclaimed with a laugh, as he 
 started back. " Don't look at me, please ! Just stole in 
 to get a package of cigarettes I left here this morning. 
 Been shooting over at Mill Valley ; bagged some great 
 birds. Oh, I say, I saw your sister." 
 
 " My sister !" 
 
 The palms, the flowers, the boy, the music from the 
 next room, danced fantastically about her. 
 
 " Yes, the pretty one ; had on a seal-skin jacket ; saw 
 her walking up toward the heights at Sausalito with 
 Kenyon, that handsome fellow who writes. I met him 
 at my brother's club one night " 
 
 " When did you say you saw her ?" came the low words, 
 accompanied by a strained smile. She had suddenly be- 
 come conscious of a heliotrope gown near the dividing 
 portiere. She recognized it at once as Mrs. Ferris's ; it 
 stood intently still. The wearer was listening. 
 
96 
 
 " Let's see," calculated the boy, " it must have been 
 about 5.40, because I was hurrying toward the station 
 to take the 5.45 boat home." 
 
 " Yes," said Constance, slowly was she talking to the 
 heliotrope gown or to the boy ? " perhaps it was about 
 that time. I suppose she took the next boat home." 
 
 " Couldn't do that," exclaimed Charlie Ferris, with a 
 grin. " I took the last boat over myself. There's no 
 boat after the 5.45." 
 
 He stood with his hands in his pockets, and regarded 
 her like a young mastiff of superior wisdom. In his 
 careless, boyish face there was no trace of the hideous 
 thought which assailed the woman standing stonily be- 
 fore him. Finally a peculiar little laugh escaped her. 
 The gown was waiting for some further comment. 
 
 " I am so forgetful," she explained, carefully, as she 
 regarded the boy. " Of course. She thought of pass- 
 ing the night with May Turnbull ; the Turnbulls are liv- 
 ing over there now, you know. How foolish of me to 
 forget !" There are moments of confused agony when 
 the bravest will seek to escape in the shadow of a subter- 
 fuge. 
 
 " Yes, I know Tom Turnbull," nodded Charlie, pick- 
 ing tip his cigarettes from a small rustic stand. " Don't 
 give me away, Miss Herriott !" And with this cavalier 
 adieu he disappeared. The purple gown moved away. 
 
 Constance stood alone. What did it mean ? She put 
 her hand to her head as if to brush aside the cloud of 
 blood which blinded her. Geoffrey ! That was it she 
 was going to call Geoffrey. She took a step forward. 
 No, not Geoffrey now. There was no one no one in 
 all the world to help her. There must be no gossip. 
 
97 
 
 Eleanor Herriott was her sister hers, and the sister of 
 those four girls at home. She belonged to no one else ; 
 hers her mother's child. 
 
 " Ah, Constance, what are you doing here alone ?" 
 
 The blood rushed madly over her brow as she faced 
 Brunton. 
 
 " I saw you leave the drawing-room hurriedly," he 
 said, approaching her with quiet concern. " Is anything 
 wrong ?" 
 
 " Wrong !" she repeated, with such exaggerated vehe- 
 mence that he drew back. " What could possibly be 
 wrong ? I " 
 
 "Excuse me, Miss Herriott," interrupted Gertrude 
 Ferris's voice, as she stood, somewhat flushed, near the 
 portiere, " but mamma sent me to ask you if you would 
 please play something for us." 
 
 "Certainly," asserted Constance, moving swiftly to 
 her. " I shall be pleased to play for you, Gertrude." 
 
 There was something like entreaty in the smile she 
 gave to the girl. Gertrude, who had an almost idola- 
 trous admiration for Constance Herriott, touched her 
 arm timidly. Constance involuntarily shuddered. Ger- 
 trude drew back, blushing violently. 
 
 " Forgive me," said Constance, with an indrawn sigh. 
 " I believe I am slightly nervous to-night." 
 
 " Then do not play," begged Miss Ferris, hurriedly. 
 " I'll sing, if you would rather stay here." 
 
 But Constance stepped into the drawing-room. As 
 she seated herself at the piano her hands felt like insen- 
 sate lumps of ice. But she must play. Everybody was 
 looking at her, and nobody must know. She felt as 
 though it could be read all over her figure her back, 
 
her hair, upon her white neck. She must play to hide 
 it, play to show that nothing was wrong. Like a crimi- 
 nal on the verge of being discovered, she gathered her 
 wits in one supreme effort. She played a quaint ma- 
 zurka. Her fingers moved like excellently drilled wax- 
 works. How the notes tripped, tripped mocking, jest- 
 ing, happy-sad notes tripping 'over a grave ! Only one 
 among all her auditors knew that the stately, calm-faced 
 girl was in a delirium of suffering. Brunton, standing 
 in the doorway like a sentinel, regarded her with the as- 
 sured conviction that she would suddenly break down ; 
 only some great physical or mental pain could have made 
 her act as hysterically as she had acted a moment before 
 in the conservatory. He was on the alert to give his 
 assistance. It was not needed. 
 
 From then till the moment when he unlocked her 
 door for her she appeared quite self-possessed. 
 
 " Can I do anything for you ?" he asked, as she 
 stepped over the threshold. 
 
 " No, thank you ; I have everything I wish." 
 
 " Then good-night ; sleep well." 
 
 " Good-night, Geoffrey." 
 
 She closed the heavy door softly behind him. Then, 
 with a wild movement, she rushed up-stairs into Elea- 
 nor's room, over to the bed, feeling convulsively for the 
 young form she loved so well. Nothing. 
 
 She put her hand to her throat ; her heart was stran- 
 gling her. " Eleanor !" she called. No answer. She lit 
 a match and groped about the room perhaps there was 
 a note. She lit the gas. Nothing. She must search 
 the house. From room to room the still, misty gray 
 figure passed, making no sound, no outcry, no call for 
 
99 
 
 help. And at last she stood again in Eleanor's room 
 with empty hands. 
 
 She was utterly bewildered. In the irresistible rush 
 of opposing thoughts her mind wandered strangely. 
 Kenyon ! The man of whom, for months, she had 
 thought but as of something beautiful and strong 
 something purer and more wholesome than any per- 
 sonality which had ever touched hers outside of child- 
 hood and adolescence ! Quick, passionate, dauntless, she 
 knew him to be ; stubborn and selfish, perhaps, but not 
 vile ! And if he were vile, what was Eleanor ? What 
 was her sister ? The shame and wretchedness of the 
 question were pitiable. 
 
 It was significant of the horror of the situation that 
 she gave no tender thought to Eleanor. One supreme 
 question rang eternally in her brain : What would peo- 
 ple say ? What would people say ? Always, always 
 came the answer at the sound of the name of Herriott, 
 that the sister of those innocent young girls was No, 
 no ! It was too awful, too pitiless. It must not be 
 God help her, it should not be ! 
 
 The demoniacal shapes filed slowly out of her mental 
 portal. She felt herself gaining a peculiar, moveless 
 power. Emotion, weakness, femininity, fell from her. 
 She grew cold, hard, relentless as a commandant before 
 a deadly enemy. Something was to be done, and she 
 must do it. There was no man, no father, no brother to 
 turn to in this sickening crisis. It was man's work, but 
 there was no one but herself no one but Constance 
 Herriott ; and the father, the brother, was at hand. 
 
 She stood wrapped in a hood of strong thought. Fi- 
 nally she turned and walked down-stairs. Her step was 
 
100 
 
 deliberate, sure, masterful. The woman in her was rout- 
 ed ; she strode like a man. She lit the gas in the library ; 
 she found a newspaper. With strong, nerveless fingers 
 she turned it till she came to the railroad guide. The 
 first ferry left San Francisco for Sausalito at 7.30 in the 
 morning. The first ferry from Sausalito arrived five 
 minutes before ; she would be in time, if they had not 
 gone farther north. She looked at the clock ; it was half- 
 past two. There were four hours to wait. 
 
 She mounted the stairs and entered her own room. 
 She did not glance toward, did not see, the child Marjo- 
 rie sleeping in the bed. She began to take off her gown. 
 She replaced it with a plain, dark, tailor-made garment, 
 whose severity but augmented the severe aspect of her 
 bearing. 
 
 " There is only one way," she thought, as she pinned 
 on her hat. " I must go to them. People must never 
 know. Only one way " her eye, travelling toward the 
 open bureau drawer, encountered a small derringer, which 
 always lay there hidden " or," came the cold, emotion- 
 less thought, " perhaps two." 
 
 Then, taking from the closet a dark, straight ulster, 
 she sat down and waited. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 " You want him tea velly stlong ?" asked Wong, stand- 
 ing, caddy in hand, and looking with an odd expression 
 upon Eleanor Herriott. Eleanor stood near Wong in 
 the tiny kitchen. 
 
 " Yes, please. And if you will arrange the tray, I shall 
 take it right in." 
 
 " Misser Ken velly sick man ?" asked the Chinaman, his 
 slender yellow hand deftly spreading the small tray with 
 a white cloth. 
 
 " He is better now." 
 
 The slanting brown eyes regarded her with the cool, 
 intrepid, Mongolian stare as he placed the tray in her 
 hands. She did not notice it. There was a serenity, 
 an indescribable lack of self - consciousness upon her 
 face such as one sees upon the clear, chaste counte- 
 nances of some nuns. She passed quietly out with the 
 steaming tea, Wong following her; but he went on to 
 his broom on the porch. 
 
 She entered the sitting-room. Kenyon still reposed in 
 a partly reclining attitude upon the lounge, where he had 
 half-fallen, half-thrown himself the night before after 
 that scene upon the beach at sunset. His elbow was 
 sunk in the soft cushion which Eleanor had managed to 
 place under his head. His face looked gray and thought- 
 ful. He received the tray from her hands without a word 
 of protesting thanks. While he idly stirred the spoon, 
 his wandering gaze travelled from her hat and jacket 
 
102 
 
 j>i\*a.etiair*to;th sl>m, graceful form beside him. A 
 ' pi&aleet I<x)fegat1lfcrred* in his eyes. 
 
 " Will you tell me," he asked, gently, " how I happen 
 to be lying here ?" 
 
 " You were ill," she replied. " I brought you here. 
 When we came in you sank down there. At first you 
 were in a sort of stupor ; then your breathing changed. 
 You slept all night." 
 
 He listened attentively, swallowing the while a little 
 of the hot tea. When he replaced the cup in the saucer 
 he shot a quick look of consternation at her. She stood 
 with her hand on the head of the couch watching him 
 with simple solicitude. He raised his cup again to his 
 lips without a word. 
 
 They remained thus in silence until they heard 
 Wong's voice suddenly raised in colloquy upon the 
 porch. There was a slight movement in the hall. A 
 hovering, dark shadow appeared in the doorway. The 
 next minute Constance stood before them. 
 
 The cup and saucer fell with a crash as Kenyon rose 
 to his feet and confronted her. His face and lips were 
 deathly. Eleanor had drawn back in surprise. Con- 
 stance's face was covered with a still, mask-like compos- 
 ure. It was not a pleasant expression. 
 
 "Are you two married?" she asked, in a hard voice, 
 meeting Kenyon's eyes. 
 
 A stifled cry came from Eleanor. The sudden flood 
 of consciousness the words bore to her was brutal. 
 
 Kenyon's unswerving gaze did not turn to the girl, nor 
 did Constance's ; they regarded each other dumbly. 
 
 " I asked if you two are married ?" she repeated, in 
 deliberate, heavy precision. 
 
103 
 
 " We are not," returned Kenyon, in an unnatural tone. 
 
 " How dare you, Constance !" The cry came from 
 Eleanor, as she sprang forward with burning eyes and 
 cheeks, and hand upraised as if to strike. Constance 
 turned easily toward her. 
 
 " You are not responsible for your inspirations," she 
 said, " but you had better put down your hand. I have 
 come to see that Mr. Kenyon repairs the wrong he has 
 done you. Please stand back." 
 
 " What wrong ?" demanded the younger sister tersely. 
 " What wrong are you insinuating, pray ?" 
 
 Constance heard her without a change of expression. 
 She looked again toward Kenyon. 
 
 " Mr. Kenyon, you must marry my sister to-day be- 
 fore you leave this house." 
 
 " Marry Miss Eleanor ? Your demand is hasty," he 
 replied, with a laugh. " Had we not better control 
 tragics ? Why should I marry Miss Eleanor now at 
 any time I beg ?" 
 
 " I had not thought you a scoundrel," she returned. 
 " But in any case " 
 
 " In any case you would marry your sister to the 
 scoundrel." His teeth were set now. He understood. 
 He would offer no recriminations to her. 
 
 " Mr. Kenyon, listen to me. A woman has only her 
 good name. She may be forced to maintain it at the 
 price of her happiness. If you have one spark of man- 
 liness left you will make right in the world's eyes what 
 has passed since yesterday by making my sister your 
 wife." Her figure seemed to tower over the quivering 
 younger girl. Her face was as relentless as that of an 
 Atropos. " I can trust you to do this, as the friend of 
 
104 
 
 my cousin, Severn Scott." She chose her words care- 
 fully. Kenyon drew himself up haughtily, his nostrils 
 quivering with repression. Constance, mistaking the 
 movement, drew nearer, regarding him with stern mean- 
 ing. 
 
 " There is one way out of it," she added ; " but it is 
 a more melodramatic and disagreeable one." 
 
 " Oh, there is no need for violence," he returned, un- 
 derstanding her. " If you stop to consider, shooting 
 would only aggravate scandal. And really I am ready 
 to make all amends for au unforeseen adventure since 
 you are so insistent." 
 
 " But I I " Eleanor's voice came sharply. 
 
 " Miss Eleanor, it is better so," interrupted Kenyon, 
 with sudden sternness. " Your sister is right. She has 
 a cooler finger on the pulse of the world than we. Let 
 us submit. I promise that it will be better for you." 
 
 " You will allow me to send your servant for Dr. Gran- 
 niss ?" broke in Constance's calm voice. 
 
 " Certainly. My house and all in it are at your dis- 
 posal. But there are certain preliminaries " 
 
 Constance had already left the room. 
 
 Fifteen minutes later Dr. Granniss came in. His 
 cheeks showed a faint wintry rose of disturbance as he 
 looked about him. 
 
 " You sent for me, Constance ?" he asked, in surprised 
 gentleness. 
 
 " Yes, doctor. I want you to do me the only favor I 
 may ever ask of you. My sister here and Mr. Kenyon 
 are to be married this morning now. I want you to 
 marry them. Will you ?" 
 
 There was a deep silence, while the clergyman consid- 
 
105 
 
 ered her unexpected demand. His wrinkled hand trem- 
 bled as it rested upon the table. 
 
 " Have you a license ?" he asked, turning to Kenyon. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " The State law requires one. I cannot honorably per- 
 form the ceremony without one." There was another 
 painful silence, during which Kenyon contemplated him 
 with folded arms. 
 
 " Dr. Granniss," said Constance, clearly, " I know I 
 shall not appeal to you in vain. I ask you to go through 
 this ceremony this form, now, for my mother's child 
 for my mother's sake." 
 
 The pastor's delicate old face flushed painfully. He 
 turned to her and looked at her questioningly. 
 
 " Is this haste really so necessary ?" he asked, sternly. 
 
 " It is." 
 
 He bent his head in thought. 
 
 " For your mother's sake," he said, finally ; " and be- 
 cause I know you all so well, I will do my part there. 
 Come a little forward, please." 
 
 The binding words were soon spoken. Without many 
 words Granniss drew up a certificate. 
 
 " You are man and wife," he said, picking up his hat 
 and stick, and moving to leave. " You have vowed it be- 
 fore God and in the presence of man. There is your 
 voucher. And I pray you will be happy and true to each 
 other. Good - morning. Good - morning, Miss Con- 
 stance." 
 
 He was man enough of the world to understand that 
 the occurrence had had a peculiar forerunner. He shook 
 their hands earnestly but rather curtly. As the gate 
 clicked behind him Constance moved toward the door. 
 
106 
 
 Kenyon was leaning silently against it. Eleanor, white 
 to the lips, watched her blindly. 
 
 " Good-bye," said Constance, coming toward her and 
 holding out her hands. 
 
 "Don't touch me," breathed Eleanor, drawing back. 
 Constance's hands fell to her sides. 
 
 " Will you allow me to pass ?" she said in a low voice 
 to Kenyon, his powerful figure barring her way. He 
 stepped aside without a word. 
 
 "Good-bye," she said, looking for a moment at him. 
 In the single word lay a world of command and entreaty. 
 He bent his head in silence. He had always understood 
 her thus. 
 
 " Stop one moment," called Eleanor, huskily, as Con- 
 stance's hand turned the knob. " Will you tell me now 
 why you have done this thing to me to Mr. Kenyon? 
 What reason, what right " 
 
 For a second Constance's waxen face looked toward 
 her, a subtle nobility emanating from it like a white 
 flame. 
 
 " Why ?" she repeated, in a clear, passionless voice. 
 " Because, Eleanor, there must be no shame attached to 
 the name of your mother's children. If you do not un- 
 derstand how it could come, 1 cannot teach you now." 
 
 A minute later the elder sister had passed quietly, 
 swiftly down the hilly road. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 IT was bitterly cold, despite the dazzling sun overhead. 
 As Constance neared the station she looked at her watch ; 
 it was twenty -five minutes past nine. The next ferry 
 would leave at five minutes to ten. She began to walk 
 slowly up and down near the wharf. A belated school- 
 girl, bound for the other side, forgot her irritation over 
 having missed her boat while watching the marble-faced, 
 regally -moving woman. She was surely "somebody," 
 thought the girl, or a " woman with a history." An Ital- 
 ian fisherman, drawing in his nets, lay idly rocking in 
 his boat with his eyes upon her. A tall, stout, well- 
 groomed old gentleman with white side-whiskers and an 
 eye-glass scanned her curiously and with a start of rec- 
 ognition as she turned and her hair came into view. He 
 looked searchingly at her, and was about to approach her 
 when he saw the small crowd moving toward the boat, 
 and he moved with it. Constance, quite unconscious of 
 being noticed, mechanically mounted the ferry steps and 
 seated herself in the corner near the boiler, resting her el- 
 bow on the railing and her head on her hand. The throb- 
 bing of the steam, the easy sweep of the boat, soothed 
 her insensibly. Her gray eyes rested wearily on the 
 blue, white-crested waves. She felt old and dreary in 
 this moment of relaxation. But it was all arranged 
 now ; there was nothing more for her to do. And yet 
 would he be good to her ? Habit overrides change ; 
 
108 
 
 Eleanor was still to her one of her children. Would he 
 be good to her? A rush of memory brought his face 
 and figure before her as she had last seen him stately, 
 white, and grand. A rush of something else almost si- 
 multaneously obliterated every other sensation. But she 
 shut her eyes and pressed her lips hard. A cold, stern, 
 inner voice reiterated, " He is your sister's husband 
 now ! Remember ! Your sister's husband 1" She was 
 dumbly trying to learn the " never again " of the stoic, 
 the death in life which is an endless death-scene. She 
 was painfully startled when she heard herself addressed. 
 
 "Good-morning, Miss Herriott; I thought I could not 
 be mistaken." A well-groomed old gentleman was stand- 
 ing before her with a beaming face and gloved hand 
 outstretched. As she put her hand into his a wave of 
 color flushed her face. 
 
 "Did you stop over at our little plateau last night?" 
 he asked, seating himself beside her with an air of com- 
 fort. " I saw your sister with my distinguished neighbor, 
 Kenyon, coming over, too, on the ferry last night. Where 
 did she stay ? May was expecting her when I told her I 
 had seen her." 
 
 She had not thought of the explanatory contingency. 
 Her wits worked rapidly. Presently a conventional 
 smile curved her lips as she spoke. 
 
 " Why," she said " well, I have a little surprise in 
 store for yon, and others. You did not know that you 
 were travelling with a pair of elopers ! My sister and 
 Mr. Kenyon can you believe it ? they fairly ran off to- 
 gether last night. They were married by Dr. Granniss, 
 over at Sausalito." 
 
 " Miss Herriott ! Really ? No ?" 
 
109 
 
 He veered his huge bulk slowly around in order to get 
 her more completely into view. Ah ! she had said it 
 well ; there was only one meaning to be taken from her 
 words. She thanked God that she could say them even 
 so. 
 
 " Yes," she nodded, still smiling as one does when de- 
 livering happy news. " Geniuses are romantic, you know ; 
 and my sister, Lydia-Languishwise, preferred the excite- 
 ment of an elopement to the conventionality of an ordi- 
 nary wedding. So they just took hands and ran off." 
 Another good sentence she must learn it. The next 
 time it would come more glibly. 
 
 " Well, I am astonished ! You don't say so ! Well, 
 well ! I must make a note of it, so as not to forget to tell 
 May this evening. She does take on so when I fail to 
 tell any piece of news I have been carrying around with 
 me all day. And this is a piece of news." He had tak- 
 en out his little alligator-skin note-book, and was jotting 
 down a word or two. Then he made an excited gesture 
 and laid his hand upon hers. 
 
 " But how are you taking it ?" 
 
 " With a smile." 
 
 "Exactly. That's wise. Tell you what, Miss Herri- 
 ott, there's a good deal more sense than nonsense in an 
 elopement ; saves lots of time, money, and flummery, 
 which would be spent in mere show. But I am aston- 
 ished ! Your little sister gone and married to the young 
 literary lion ! Do you think the couple will settle down 
 here ?" 
 
 How easy and jolly and natural it sounded ! 
 
 " I can't say," she answered, with a little laugh, which 
 was almost a sob of thanksgiving. " You see, it was all 
 
110 
 
 so hurried, Mr. Turnbull. They have not told me their 
 plans." 
 
 "Ha, ha! you'll hear them after they are settled, I 
 suppose, in order to maintain the consistency. When 
 did you get wind of it ?" 
 
 " I ? Only late last night. Absurd, wasn't it ?" 
 
 " Wired, I suppose." 
 
 " How else does news travel ?" 
 
 " So you came over to give them your blessing and a 
 godspeed ! You're an early bird. Well, business is 
 business. Boss can't lie calmly abed when the cashier's 
 run off with his treasure. Remarkable-looking man, that 
 Kenyon. Stands out and over every one wherever you 
 put him. Suppose he is pretty well fixed through his 
 uncle's will. Don't go much, however, on the stability of 
 a Bohemian's bank-account. Genius is apt to be either 
 erratic or erotic. Don't be surprised if you find your 
 brother-in-law surprising. So Dr. Granniss did it. 
 Queer ! The old gentleman is a great stickler for regu- 
 larity. But better so. Well, here we are. I think I'll 
 telephone to May. Then she won't have to go ferreting 
 her out, as she intended doing this morning when I told 
 her she had come over on the last boat with Kenyon - 
 look out for those steps, Miss Herriott. Good-luck to 
 them! They're taking a risk getting married; but 
 what's fire - proof nowadays ? Which car do you 
 take?" 
 
 " The the Market," she answered, after a slight hesi- 
 tation, as they walked around the noisy pier. If she took 
 the more convenient car she would be liable to meet other 
 acquaintances. 
 
 The old gentleman saw her fairly seated, paid her fare, 
 
Ill 
 
 saluted, and was gone. The car started off. It was quite 
 empty a fact for which she was grateful, as she felt fever- 
 ish and uncanny. Several men were seated on the dum- 
 my, but no one came in till they reached Lotta's fountain. 
 She dimly saw the waiting crowd, old Father Elphic's 
 white, uncovered hair, and the baskets of violets and 
 chrysanthemums held by the importunate little boy vend- 
 ers. A few women got in. Some one touched her 
 slightly on the sleeve and took the seat beside her. It 
 was Mrs. Ferris. 
 
 " Good -morning, Miss Constance. Lovely morning, 
 isn't it ? Been shopping ?" she asked, with that airiness 
 which makes a question a mere formula, and which takes 
 no cognizance of an answer. " Haven't you lost your 
 bearings by taking this car?" There was a steely bright- 
 ness in her eyes a covert curiosity, well-spiced with some 
 anterior knowledge. 
 
 " I shall transfer to the Powell Street line." 
 
 "A little roundabout, I should think. I had some 
 business to transact on Market Street, and as I am due at 
 my dress-maker's, make the connection this way. Did 
 you hear the news last night?" The sharp, ferret eyes 
 were upon her ; the slight, abrupt change of expression 
 which flitted over Constance's face was not unobserved. 
 
 " I scarcely think I know to what you refer," Con- 
 stance ventured, almost naturally. " One hears so many 
 rumors. I generally wait before I consider them con- 
 firmed facts." 
 
 " As some people wait for the evening paper before 
 they pronounce the morning news verified. Don't you 
 think life is too short for such long entr'actes ? It must 
 make the play rather slow, as it were. I was referring 
 
112 
 
 to Mrs. Vassault's proposed fancy-dress affair. By-the- 
 bye, I suppose your sister Eleanor " 
 
 " Ah, here we are at Powell Street," interrupted Con- 
 stance, with a motion to the conductor to stop. Cross- 
 ing Market Street at mid-day is not a careless affair. With 
 its numberless cable-cars thrumming up and down, horse- 
 cars interspersed ad libitum, trucks thundering over the 
 rails and cobble-stones, carts whizzing by without regard 
 to life or limb, car-bells ringing incessant warnings to the 
 thousands of intrepid foot-passengers darting in and out 
 in alarming proximity to revolving wheels, it is a hazard- 
 ous undertaking, and one is always thankful when safely 
 over the slippery, well-watered street. 
 
 There was a prolonged pause in Mrs. Ferris's and Con- 
 stance's conversation, during which time Constance steeled 
 herself to make the best front before this consummate 
 female barterer of all privacy. As soon as they were 
 safely seated again, Mrs. Ferris picked up her broken sen- 
 tence and rounded it. 
 
 " I suppose your sister Eleanor will go. There are so 
 many charming characters she could personate. I sug- 
 gested to Mrs. Vassault that she ask the girls to repre- 
 sent different courts. For instance, there is Elizabeth's, 
 Louis Fifteenth's (the women of the Salon), and those of 
 Martha Washington's time. Now, in regard to your 
 sister Eleanor, I think that her vivacity would suit the 
 French " 
 
 " One minute, Mrs. Ferris," put in Constance, with 
 successfully forced sang-froid. " I have been endeavor- 
 ing to tell you another piece of news ever since we met. 
 Did you know that my sister Eleanor is married ?" Her 
 words were followed by an overwhelming thought : 
 
113 
 
 " Thank God thank God now ! that my sister is mar- 
 ried !" 
 
 " Your sister Eleanor ? Married !" The intense color 
 in Mrs. Ferris's sallow cheek attested to the force of the 
 sensation. " Heavens ! what do you mean ?" 
 
 " She went gayly off with Mr. Kenyon yesterday was 
 married to him over at Sausalito." 
 
 " An elopement then !" Mrs. Ferris was off her guard. 
 Constance recognized the knowledge of which this ex- 
 clamation was an outgrowth. 
 
 "Exactly. These these geniuses are romantic, you 
 know, and Eleanor, like another Lydia Languish, always 
 said she preferred the excitement of an elopement to 
 the more conventional, ordinary wedding. So they just 
 took hands and ran off like children !" 
 
 The news had robbed Mrs. Ferris of her presence of 
 mind. Her eyes looked ready to start from their sock- 
 ets. She glanced in uneasy bewilderment from Con- 
 stance to the window. They had reached a corner, and 
 she motioned hurriedly to the conductor, 
 
 " I forgot," she murmured, putting a flurried hand 
 upon Constance's. " I must get out here. You have so 
 surprised me, too ! But but I congratulate you 
 good-bye I'll see you soon again." 
 
 As her tall, thin figure disappeared on the car-step, 
 Constance looked out of the window. Down the street 
 before a millinery-shop she plainly discerned Mrs. Yas- 
 sault's carriage, with its rather prominent coachman in 
 green-and- white livery. She understood. Mrs. Ferris's 
 ruling passion had claimed her. 
 
 " The ball is set rolling," she thought, in grim weari- 
 ness. " It was a little turn of luck that enabled me 
 
114 
 
 to give Mrs. Ferris the news first -hand. It may not 
 come out altogether distorted now." 
 
 The sight of her own door-step was a welcome greet- 
 ing. When her foot touched the first step she felt as 
 though an elegant robe of state had slipped from her and 
 left her free to clothe herself as she would. The sense 
 of the familiar is always peculiarly soothing and comfort- 
 ing to all solitary, thoughtful souls. She stood in her 
 rightful realm, alone in the arched doorway. The mar- 
 ble under her feet, the oak panels behind her, knew her 
 and recognized her as theirs in a silence like that which 
 distinguishes familiar loves from the noisier contact of 
 the less intimate. 
 
 Before she could ring, the door was flung open. 
 Grace and the two children stood in the doorway, ex- 
 cited and red-eyed. 
 
 " Oh, Constance," they cried, " we have been so upset ! 
 Where" 
 
 Constance closed the door quickly as she stepped 
 in. "Come into the library, dears," she said. "I'm 
 cold." 
 
 They followed her silently. The mark of years was 
 upon the new-comer. She drew off her hat and coat, and 
 went to the fire. 
 
 Marjorie burst forth, in sobbing excitement, "Edith 
 isn't at school. A girl came and said she hadn't been at 
 school for four days. Miss Temple wants to know why, 
 and Eleanor didn't come home you were out before 
 we got up, and Grace hurt me when she dressed me, 
 and and it's all so uncomftafiddle !" The shrill, 
 childish voice broke in a flood of tears as she rushed to 
 Constance and hid her head in her gown. The wretch- 
 
115 
 
 edness of disorder had penetrated even to the baby. 
 Constance turned a questioning face to Grace. 
 
 " What is this about Edith 3" she asked, in a harsh, 
 quick tone. 
 
 " I don't know," answered Grace, in pale affright, re- 
 garding the changed, haggard face before her. " Miss 
 Temple sent one of the girls to find out why Edith had 
 not been to school for four days. She did go, didn't 
 she, Constance? And, Constance, what what is the 
 matter, that Eleanor does not come home ?" 
 
 " Wait," answered Constance, sharply. New mystery ! 
 New misery ! 
 
 " I shall go over to the school now. Stay in-doors till 
 I get back. What time is it ?" 
 
 " Eleven o'clock." 
 
 Still morning ! Would the day never end ? 
 
 Constance was out in the street again, her temples 
 throbbing hammer and tongs, her limbs, stiff and numb, 
 almost crying out their pain as she walked on to the 
 large private school on the heights. Miss Temple greeted 
 her visitor with marked deference. She had little to say 
 except that Edith had been absent, and she had made it 
 a rule to inquire after the fourth day. 
 
 " She was seen each day but the day of the storm by 
 a number of the girls, apparently on her way to school 
 with her books." 
 
 " Yes. She started at the usual hour and has returned 
 as usual," replied her sister, imperturbably. " Do not 
 let me detain you, Miss Temple. Thank you for in- 
 forming me. I shall have to punish her accordingly. 
 Good-morning." 
 
 Miss Temple was somewhat abstracted afte"r the quiet 
 
116 
 
 woman had left. " She looks ill," she reflected. " She 
 must have a great deal of trouble with all those girls !" 
 
 Constance turned again homeward. She passed houses 
 of all descriptions, from quaint Queen Anne and feudal- 
 looking castles to simple, old-fashioned cottages with 
 old-fashioned gardens, like country-girls astray in town 
 for a holiday. She halted suddenly, as if to find 
 her inner bearings, at the corner of Fillmore Street and 
 Broadway, whence an almost perpendicular declivity 
 descended abruptly, sloping gradually in billowy undula- 
 tions to the bay. She leaned against the low, rickety 
 fence which surrounded the lupine-grown lot, and let her 
 eye sweep over the soft harmony of colors beyond : the 
 deep blue of the bay, with its still, white sails at anchor; 
 Angel Island, stretched like a slumbering, dun-colored 
 dream-god; behind it the foot-hills, rising gradually into 
 the purple, starry-pointing Tamalpais, which the tender 
 cheek of heaven seemed to touch all parts of a poem of 
 divine inspiration. But again her gaze fell to the water, 
 and swept around the curve where Golden Gate opens 
 like a neck of silver into the head-waters of the great 
 Pacific a cramped little soul bursting its bounds. Con- 
 stance, too, reached out for immateriality. Cares and 
 frets dropped from her like frail rose-petals in the breeze. 
 For five minutes, at least, she ceased to think. 
 
 At that moment a man descending the steps of the 
 house opposite was attracted by the leaning figure of the 
 woman. He paused and peered carefully, shading his 
 eyes with his hand in the manner of the near-sighted. 
 Then he crossed over with an air of uncertainty. As 
 he approached his step gained in alacrity. 
 
 " Well, Constance Herriott, the Abstracted," he said, 
 
117 
 
 before his foot had touched the sidewalk, " where are 
 your thoughts ?" 
 
 She started violently as she turned toward him. 
 
 " I can't locate my thoughts just now," she said, with 
 a wandering smile. "Where did you spring from, 
 Geoffrey, at this hour of the day ?" 
 
 " From yonder," he replied, nodding toward the dark, 
 imposing mansion, his penetrating eye silently taking in 
 the sad discomposure of her face, but seeming to take 
 no cognizance. " Been aiding Stephen Gage to deliver 
 himself before the Highest Magistrate with a clear con- 
 science. His charities are all posthumous, so I suppose 
 his beatitude will be coincident. At the present mo- 
 ment he is dying a very miserable, lonely death. You 
 see, giving up anything is hard for a miser, and when it 
 comes to life and fortune, the moment is better imagined 
 than described. I'll walk home with you." 
 
 They crossed the street, passing the darkened house 
 whence Brunton had just emerged. Before the next 
 door stood several carriages. Just as they came near, 
 the chords of Mendelssohn's " Wedding March " pealed 
 out exultingly. As the paean of joy reached them, Brun- 
 ton remarked, grimly : 
 
 "Life! Here good heavens! Constance, what is 
 it?" She had grasped his arm and hurried him on breath- 
 lessly, her face working with anguish. 
 
 "Hurry," she whispered, hoarsely, "hurry, I can't 
 hear that I can't bear it !" 
 
 When they had got out of ear-shot of the music, she 
 looked up at him with a painful smile. 
 
 " That march that march, Geoffrey," she faltered, 
 " always affects me strangely ! It depicts happiness so 
 
118 
 
 confident, so solemn, that it is heavy with pain. It exults 
 so, Geoffrey. Whenever I hear it, it excites me almost 
 to delirium, and, before I know it, tears are in my eyes. 
 And, Geoffrey you don't know it yet but Eleanor is 
 married." 
 
 It escaped her with resistless force. Brunton turned 
 pale. 
 
 " Eleanor ? Nonsense ! To whom ?" 
 
 " To Mr. Kenyon." 
 
 " When ?" 
 
 It was not coming out right. What was it she had 
 said to the others? Oh, why could she not remember ! 
 Yes. She had it now. 
 
 " They ran off together yesterday, and were married 
 over at Sausalito by Dr. Granniss. You know old Dr. 
 Granniss you have heard of him, Geoffrey ? It is just 
 out of course. Even you you " 
 
 " Hush, Constance." Her excitement was painful to 
 witness. The excitement to which a calm personality 
 so utterly submits must have a mighty cause. 
 
 " You think it odd for a girl like Eleanor to elope," 
 she pursued, unheedingly. " But you see, Geoffrey, Mr. 
 Kenyon is is a genius and these geniuses and Elea- 
 nor Lydia Languish it couldn't you know it is dif- 
 ferent they " 
 
 " I understand, Constance. I beg you to say no 
 more." 
 
 She had bungled sadly. Before Brunton's truth-com- 
 pelling, kindly gaze the stereotyped phrases melted into 
 incoherency. Her brain was in a whirl. Excitement, 
 fatigue, and want of sleep and food had undermined her 
 wonted equanimity. Brunton walked beside her, help- 
 
119 
 
 less in his yearning strength. He dared not question 
 her, he could neither congratulate nor console. He 
 stood before a wall of mystery which hid, he knew, some 
 tragic occurrence. She made no further attempt to speak 
 till they reached her steps. Then, she held out her hand, 
 and raised her heavy eyes to his. 
 
 " I assure you, though, it is all right, Geoffrey," she 
 said, simply, in a dull, even voice. 
 
 He held her hand in a strong grasp. " Constance," 
 he said, quietly, " there are things that only a man can 
 do. Are you quite sure you don't need me now?" 
 
 She looked at him with a sad shake of her head, the 
 deeper meaning of his tender words and tone unheeded 
 in her numbed senses. 
 
 " Not now," she answered. 
 
 " God help you," he said, with the submission which 
 knows no alternative " God help you ! since you will 
 give no one else the right. But you are wrong." 
 
 She did not answer him, and he turned silently away. 
 
 At about half-past three that afternoon Edith Herriott 
 came in with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes. She 
 threw her books upon a chair, and was about to run up- 
 stairs when Constance arrested her. 
 
 " Where have you been ?" she asked, in stern deliber- 
 ation. 
 
 The girl quailed and turned a guilty red. The words 
 struggling to her lips found no utterance. 
 
 "Do not lie further, Edith," continued her sister. 
 " You have not been at school. Answer me at once, 
 and truthfully. Where have you been?" 
 
 Edith turned like a stag at bay. The other children 
 listened breathlessly. 
 
120 
 
 " I I well, if I must tell, I was bicycling at the park. 
 You know, Constance," she rushed on, recklessly trying 
 to exculpate herself "you know I have begged and 
 begged you to let me go ; and now that Jennie Under- 
 wood is learning, I thought I would just take the chance 
 at last. You said you didn't believe in it ; you wouldn't 
 try to think it might give me pleasure ; there was no 
 harm in it ; it was only that you are so immovable and 
 unreasonable. I did want to go, so I went without, ask- 
 ing you it was my only way." 
 
 Constance listened to her stonily. Suddenly they 
 witnessed a marvel : her head sank to her knees, her 
 form shook with dry sobs. They looked at each other 
 in consternation ; the little ones began to cry. Edith, 
 white and conscience - stricken, approached her wretch- 
 edly. 
 
 " Oh, Constance," she cried, " Constance, forgive me ! 
 I didn't mean to hurt you so. Constance, darling, won't 
 you ever speak to me again ?" 
 
 She had sunk to her knees before her in abject misery. 
 After a moment Constance raised her head. 
 
 " Tell me," she said, bitterly, " am I so unjust and 
 hard that you cannot trust me ? Am I so cruel that you 
 have to be underhand to escape my tyranny ? Have I 
 only made you hate me, after all ? And yet, children, I 
 cannot rid you of me." 
 
 The words died on her lips in a storm of caresses. 
 Little hands smoothed her hair, sobbing whispers im- 
 plored her to forgive, clinging arms pressed her in love. 
 
 "Get up, Edith," said Constance, finally, in a tired, 
 gentle voice, to the crouching girl. " I don't think you 
 will ever deceive me again. Will you, dear? No, I am 
 
121 
 
 sure not. Kiss me, child ; I only meant to be kind to 
 you." 
 
 After a pause she spoke again. " And now please 
 listen, dears, all of you, for I have something to tell 
 you a//," she said, in grave seriousness. " Eleanor is mar- 
 ried. She is married to our good friend Mr. Kenyon. 
 Isn't that news? That is why she did not come home 
 last night. They were married over at Sausalito by 
 Dr. Granniss. It has all been a secret. I do not know 
 what they are going to do just vet. They are. over there 
 now. I saw them this morning. It is to go into the 
 evening papers." And so the news was told to Eleanor's 
 sisters. 
 
 Night closed in. The surprise was over. The younger 
 ones crept off to bed. Grace laid her hand upon Con- 
 stance's, and said, in a low voice : 
 
 " Constance, is Eleanor going to be happy ?" 
 
 And the quiet answer was, " Let us pray so, dear." 
 
 What other reply could be more practical and safe ? 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 ON BOARD THE U P ." 
 
 I AM quite alone, Constance dear. The sea is grave 
 and gray, reflecting the smileless sky which looks into 
 it. The steamer glides on almost imperceptibly, leaving 
 in its wake a long black shadow, a momentary record 
 that something has passed. Nothing is without shadow. 
 Over the waters sweeps the flying image of two sea- 
 gulls, winging heavenward like soaring seraphim. Noth- 
 ing is without meaning when we breathe there is a 
 mist upon the glass. Yet who can rightly interpret the 
 flying shadow of a soul ? 
 
 Constance, I want you to understand. I want you to 
 know me as I am, not as I seem to be, but stripped of 
 all the flimsy little charms which hid my weak and baser 
 instincts, and left me at least tolerable. I wonder if 
 there are many as I if, under all the suave smiles and 
 apparent indifference, beat hearts as vain and selfish and 
 passionate as mine. God help the sad old world if it is 
 so. And yet, perhaps, such a vast hypocrisy is better 
 in the long-run though it is like a fair building built 
 over the ugly crater of an apparently extinct volcano, but 
 holding forces which some day will rise in one tumultu- 
 ous upheaval and lay the pretty conventionality low. 
 
 I am at your feet. Look down, Constance, with your 
 indulgent eyes, and when you have heard, will you not 
 try to forgive ? 
 
123 
 
 You know ray childish faults ; there is no need to re- 
 capitulate or excuse. But do you remember what our 
 German governess said the day I shattered the Sevres 
 vase because my sash was narrower than yours ? " The 
 apple," she said, " falls not far from the tree." I did 
 not understand then, but I do now. She remembered 
 that I had a father. Men and women who expect to be 
 fathers and mothers some day owe a grave duty to the 
 helpless victims they will bring into the world the duty 
 to be noble. 
 
 It was only after I met Hall Kenyon that you ceased 
 to know me. Because from that moment I was changed. 
 I saw him. That was the end or, the beginning. I 
 never learned the nursery rule of counting ten before 
 acting ; I never reason. Neither can you drive me with 
 a whip. Good or bad, my words, my deeds, must be the 
 result of some impulse which seizes and binds me, and 
 rushes me madly on. 
 
 I should have been content enough to love without 
 being loved. I was happy, in a dreamy fashion, just in 
 thinking of him, in looking forward to the time when I 
 should see him again. I did not long for his love at 
 first. It was only after I saw that it was given to another 
 that it became to me the one desire of my being. The 
 fairest things in life are those which belong to others ; 
 that is the creed of the egoist and the hungry. 
 
 Suddenly, one day, I hated you ! There ! It is out. I 
 could no more retard my pen from writing it than I 
 could withhold my soul from feeling it in that moment 
 when I saw his eyes look love to you. Constance, Con- 
 stance, my heart grows faint with the weight of the 
 hatred I held for you. If you had fallen dead as you 
 
124 
 
 stood before him it would have been but the consum- 
 mation of my unspoken imprecation ; and if not dead, 
 hurt, maimed, made ugly in his sight, at least. Do 
 you turn pale ? Do you understand my blackness now ? 
 God has been good to me in this : in my worst moments 
 I held no weapon. Yet wait. All this was as nothing 
 to what I felt when I, Eleanor Herriott, listened at the 
 door when he offered you the most sacred gift in his 
 keeping. Yes, yes, I listened let me hurry in the tell- 
 ing. I desecrated the scene, perhaps, but not as I 
 desecrated my own womanhood. Sometimes I think my 
 self-contempt will eat holes into my heart. 
 
 That night are you indulgent now, my angel ? that 
 night I drugged myself to keep my hands from doing 
 that which my passion prompted. Yet they say love 
 ennobles ; there is another side for such as I: an epigram 
 is never always true. If there are many like me, there 
 are more assassins out of jail than in. When daylight 
 came I wanted the night again. Thank God for night, 
 Constance. The sun is an ugly searchlight to the heart 
 which knows its guilt. I wandered off; I wished neither 
 to see nor to be seen. I came to the ocean. It is great 
 and wide and cool ; it lulls many a fever. But before I 
 reached it I was withheld. 
 
 He stood before me on the shore. I am not a fatalist, 
 but sometimes the parallels of consequence run strangely 
 close. He was gaunt, miserable, wretched. That form 
 upon the sands made the world beyond a sickening void. 
 Love has much to answer for : it not only makes human- 
 ity miserable, but keeps it from flinging off its misery. 
 And, Constance, he was mad. He was desiring death. 
 In one frightful second I kept his feet from slipping 
 
125 
 
 from the verge. I think he had wandered about, almost 
 insane, the whole preceding night. He was ill so ill 
 that he scarcely knew me. I held him back. There was 
 but one thing for me to do to take him home. I 
 decided it in a flash. I saw nothing else, like the pho- 
 tographer who, looking into the camera darkened on all 
 sides, sees nothing but the one spot where all rays con- 
 verge. He was helpless in my hands, and I I loved 
 him. I brought him home ; in that wild hour the world 
 held no place for me. He could not deter me, I could 
 not leave him. There was little I could do for him. 
 Once home, he sank into a stupor. I sat and watched 
 him through the night without a movement. When the 
 first signs of waking came to him I caught my breath 
 as though it had been suspended in his sleep. And so 
 you found us. 
 
 Do you know how your implication struck into me ? I 
 had been in heaven a heaven as pure as can be found on 
 earth. You stepped in with a warrant of arrest from the 
 world from the breeders of scandal. Whether you 
 wronged him then in thought, I do not know ; but now 
 you must believe how guiltless he was. You know he 
 was blameless, don't you, Constance ? Whatever wrong 
 was done, I did it. I could have choked you with your 
 words. Did / wish to be foisted upon a man for the 
 mere sake of gossip upon a man whom I loved to the 
 exclusion of all else, and to whom I was but your sister ? 
 But presently, when he had spoken, I saw something 
 else ! It flashed upon me. Let me be frank. It was not 
 fear of slander which made me acquiesce. It was another 
 phase of love the selfish, jealous phase. He would be 
 mine, not yours ! in name, at least ! Perhaps , O hope, 
 
126 
 
 hope, what a Fata Morgana you are ! As his wife, he 
 could not slip entirely from me ; as his wife, I had a 
 chance of winning him to me. And yet when you left 
 I hated you doubly, because in that moment when you 
 bound him to me he still loved you more than he ever 
 had or would. That was the beginning of the wall which 
 grew about my heart. Because he loved you, he must 
 never know that / loved him I, his wife. 
 
 I think it was a half-hour after you had" gone that 
 morning that he came over to me and said, with an at- 
 tempt at playfulness: 
 
 " I am sorry for the contretemps which provides you 
 with a roue of a husband, Eleanor ! But we may as 
 well make the best of a bad job and do it up brown. 
 We may as well go across and have it recorded civilly. 
 It will not put you to any further inconvenience or pub- 
 licity. What do you say ?" He held out his hand. If 
 I had put my arms about his neck I would have been 
 following my bent. But I neither took his hand nor 
 answered. 
 
 " It will be best for both of us," he went on. " The 
 ceremony just performed has been binding enough, but 
 as a sop to our consciences it will be well to go through 
 the full conventionality. After that, if you wish, I need 
 no longer annoy you by my presence. But I think we 
 could become good comrades, if nothing more. Are you 
 willing to make the trial?" I cannot explain to you the 
 eagerness of his tone ; it was more dauntless than plead- 
 ing, more stubborn than deferential. 
 
 " It can make but little difference," I answered, list- 
 lessly, but with feverish pulses. 
 
127 
 
 He looked at me almost triumphantly as he added: 
 " Good. That is brave. Let us put on a happy front. 
 We may even come to deceiving ourselves if successful 
 in deceiving others." After that I understood that he 
 was going to meet the situation you, to speak by the 
 letter with a sort of bravado. And I fell in with the 
 scheme, knowing that I was, as I had always been, but 
 the undesired yet inevitable third party, of no conse- 
 quence to any one but myself. There is little dignity 
 to my love. 
 
 At twelve o'clock we came across and went to the 
 Lick. After which he went to the City Hall. 
 
 So we are bound. Let me not desecrate the term 
 " marriage" by calling a few meaningless words by that 
 name. He and I now, this minute, are no more married 
 than are two trees which happen to be planted next each 
 other ! Marriage means something deeper it lies in the 
 roots of both ; when they reach out to each other, then 
 the trees are wedded, and one cannot tie the knot alone. 
 
 When we were again alone he looked at his watch. 
 I have never seen him more business-like. 
 
 " What do you say to our going abroad ?" he asked, 
 as if he were asking me to go out to dine with him. 
 
 "At once?" I questioned. My face was burning with 
 excitement. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I am not prepared." 
 
 " You could easily get, this afternoon, all that you 
 would require till we reach New York." 
 
 " At what time does the train leave ?" 
 
 " At half-past six." 
 
 I thought quickly. Then I decided to send for my 
 
128 
 
 trunk. I directed the message to Grace, as you know. 
 I could not regard you as a friend of whom I could ask 
 even this slight favor you were to me only the love of 
 the man I loved ; therefore, my enemy ! You, dearest ! 
 Oh, Constance ! 
 
 We left that night. A few days later I saw a Chroni- 
 cle, in the society news of which I read : " Hall Kenyon 
 and his bride left hastily last night for New York en 
 route for Europe." He passed me the paper himself, and 
 I could feel myself pale as I read. " It reads smoothly," 
 he said. 
 
 We paint the landscape with our mood. I could tell 
 you little of what I saw. It was all unreal to me the 
 flying country, the other passengers, and the man who 
 sat opposite me. The fevered remembrance of what 
 had passed was too much like a sensational play to seem 
 to pertain to my life, though my surroundings were the 
 outcome. At times he would enact the part of cicerone 
 in a kindly, off-hand manner, as an experienced traveller 
 might to a young student who happened to be thrown 
 in with him. 
 
 He is not unkind to me, Constance. He is a gentle- 
 man, you know, and to one of that caste every woman 
 calls for courtesy and consideration. 
 
 Sometimes when lie passed through the car I noticed 
 the men and women turn to look after him with admi- 
 ration. It was a painful ecstasy to know that he was 
 mine according to the bond. 
 
 The evening before we reached New York he told me 
 in a few words about Griff. You remember Severn men- 
 tioned the name in one of his letters. " He is a little 
 fellow," Hall said, " who has lived with me for the past 
 
129 
 
 two years, lie is a cross between my secretary and my 
 conscience. This trip was the only one which has sep- 
 arated us for any length of time, and I don't know how 
 he has weathered the interval. He has had charge of 
 my rooms at the club during my absence. I wonder 
 what you will think of him." 
 
 We drove directly to the Savoy. After luncheon he 
 went out to get passage for us on the steamer which 
 sailed the next day. 
 
 " You won't be lonesome, will you ?" he asked. As 
 I told you, he is very conscientious in his kindness. 
 
 " No," I said. " I can look out of the windows or 
 read the newspapers." I had long since made up my 
 mind never to act as a chain or weight to his inclina- 
 tions. 
 
 " I'll send Griff to you," he said, with his hand on the 
 door-knob. " Perhaps, when I return, you will like to 
 do some shopping?" But there was nothing, and he 
 left. 
 
 About half an hour later there came a knock at the 
 door. I opened it expectantly. 
 
 " I am Griff," said a low voice. I looked down. I 
 asked him to come in. The unreality of my sensations 
 was not lessened as I looked. He is very small, some- 
 thing over four feet, weighted down by a cruel hump. 
 His head is large, and covered with fine, straw-colored 
 hair ; his skin is a dull white; his eyes are preposterously 
 large, and of a clear, green hue. His appearance was so 
 unexpected, so gnome-like and ugly, that for a moment 
 I was quite bewildered. 
 
 " He did not tell you, then ?" he questioned, in a sweet, 
 gentle voice. I started, conscience-stricken. What had 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 my eyes betrayed? He was regarding me with his pe- 
 culiar, limpid eyes, in which lay the patience of a St. 
 Francis. 
 
 " Will you sit down ?" I asked, and he took a seat 
 somewhat removed, with an air of reserve which was 
 quite distinct from humility. And presently we were 
 chatting in low, peaceful voices ; his own voice is like 
 the approach of an incense-bearer it hushes all unseem- 
 liness. 
 
 Once, in a pause, he said, quietly, "If there is ever 
 anything you should want me to do for you, command 
 me. My life belongs to you now, as well as to Hall." 
 He called him " Hall," though the familiarity had a cu- 
 rious intonation almost such as accompanies the word 
 " Jesus" on the lips of a devotee. 
 
 " Belongs ?" I repeated, uncomprehendingly. 
 
 " Yes. You know he saved my life." 
 
 My breathless attention drew him on. 
 
 " The river, you know. It is Lethe. He drew me from 
 it. When I revived, before I could reproach him, he 
 said, i I promise you a surer happiness than that which 
 you sought.' He has kept his word. The reproach can 
 never be uttered. And he did not tell you ?" 
 
 I shook my head. The tears choked me. He had 
 told it so simply, yet with a depth which could not be 
 fathomed. I stretched out my hand and laid it upon 
 his he had had a sympathetic listener. 
 
 After a while there came another knock. It was Sev- 
 ern. He carried in his hand a bunch of red roses. He 
 had just met Hall, he said. He looked at me curiously 
 while he spoke, asking after you all in turn. Griff had 
 meanwhile vanished. 
 
131 
 
 " It was a blow straight from the shoulder," he said. 
 " It knocked me out. Why didn't you wire the news ? 
 Not very cousinly, Eleanor to say nothing of Kenyon's 
 remissness." 
 
 " We had no time," I answered with dignity. 
 
 " I might have sent you a fitting send-off. All I could 
 do was to get you these roses you used to resemble 
 them. But, confound it ! I can't offer them to you now." 
 
 " Why not ?" I asked, quivering with fear. 
 
 " Consult your mirror," he growled. 
 
 When Hall came in I made some excuse and went into 
 the next room. Presently I heard their voices somewhat 
 raised. 
 
 " What have you done to that girl ?" I heard Severn 
 say, in a menacing tone. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" Hall responded, with a mixt- 
 ure of surprise and haughtiness. 
 
 " I mean," retorted Severn, " that when last I knew 
 her she was a charming, high-spirited young girl. She 
 is now, after a week's marriage, a sad-faced woman, whose 
 light-heartedness seems to have vanished with her maiden- 
 hood. I warn you, Kenyon, that you have to do with a 
 high-bred animal. She is Philistine to the backbone. 
 You cannot break her at once into Bohemianism." 
 
 There was a pause, during which I felt a bitter smile 
 creep over my lips at Severn's ignorance of all details. 
 
 Finally Hall spoke. His voice was cold and restrained. 
 
 " I cannot understand," he said, thoughtfully, " by 
 what right you presume to call me to account. Let me 
 beg you to remember that I want no interference between 
 me and my wife." 
 
 "Pardon my bluntness," returned Severn, in a queer 
 
132 
 
 tone. " I forgot the change in our relationship which 
 your benedictine state has wrought." 
 
 "My dear Scott," laughed Hall, in easy affectation, 
 " you must remember that a man's amour-propre resents 
 the insinuation that he has been derelict in his attentions 
 to his wife of a week. Your growl really was indelicate." 
 
 " Oh, to the devil with your evasions," was the snap- 
 ping rejoinder. "I hate palaver between friends. But 
 I understand that perfect frankness is incompatible with 
 a married man there's a woman behind the screen. I 
 respect your resentment, but for Heaven's sake, Kenyon, 
 bring the laugh back to that girl's eyes ! You can do it 
 if ever man could." 
 
 A moment later the door was banged to. I regretted 
 that I had no rouge-pot ; it is a gay mediator between 
 the resentful pride of a man and his wife when her 
 pallor might bespeak his cruelty or neglect. 
 
 He came in shortly after, and I could see by his drawn 
 brows that he was extremely irritated. It is not his way 
 to dissemble. 
 
 " Are you very unhappy, Eleanor ?" he demanded, with 
 a peremptoriness which may have been meant for con- 
 sideration of my welfare, but which held no trace of ten- 
 derness. He eyed me sternly. Probably for the first 
 time since our marriage my appearance meant something 
 to him. If I had not had myself under guard I would 
 have blushed with trepidation. As it was I answered, 
 flippantly : 
 
 " Happiness is relative. Once, when I was a young 
 girl, I was reading Balzac's Lily of the Valley, and crying 
 over it as though my heart were breaking. My sister 
 Edith asked me why I read a book which could make 
 
133 
 
 me so sad. I answered that I was having a splendid 
 time." 
 
 He looked at me as if he did not quite comprehend. 
 
 " I am not clever enough to catch the analogy," he 
 returned, with a shrug, as if my words had come from a 
 silly school-girl. " But if there is anything you wish or 
 that I can do for you, I wish you would tell me. We 
 may as well be frank with each other. You will, of 
 course, have to put up with my society to some extent, 
 more as a matter of prudence than of choice on your 
 part. I have endeavored not to bore you unnecessarily. 
 But if there is anything I can do to make you more com- 
 fortable, don't hesitate to tell me. Else where's our 
 pact of bon camaraderie?" He took both my hands with 
 a pale smile of persuasion ; he was nerving himself to 
 his duty. At that moment my poverty almost made me 
 turn sick. Never had he seemed more cold and distant 
 than when he stood so close and held my hands. 
 
 " What are the considerations of the pact ?" I asked, 
 nonchalantly, as I withdrew my hands and he seated 
 himself astride a chair. " We have not made them clear, 
 I think. Better let me know to what I have bound my- 
 self before I put the ocean between myself and a chance 
 of retraction. There might be some impossibilities among 
 them for me." 
 
 "I don't think I shall exact impossibilities," he re- 
 sponded. "But it would make your enforced position 
 more congenial, I think, if you would try to regard me 
 as a brother. Do you think you could ?" 
 
 " I do not know what the relationship entails. I never 
 had a brother." 
 
 " Nor I a sister. But I can readily imagine that all it 
 
134 
 
 requires is perfect frankness, friendly confidence, favors 
 asked and given as a matter of course, and all done with 
 a spirit of toleration and good-will. Do you think you 
 could manage it ?" 
 
 " It may be worth trying." 
 
 " I think so. Neither of us is blind to the fact that 
 the great sentiment did not make the tie ; and neither 
 of us expects the extravagances of the feeling. We can 
 get along in a practical, pleasant fashion, I believe, if we 
 trust each other. I know that I have no right to ask, 
 but I hope no former attachment is making this life bit- 
 ter for you. I can thoroughly appreciate its strain upon 
 your whole being, but without the past to hold you I 
 think you will not find the present formidable." 
 
 "And you?" I asked. "How are you going to meet 
 it?" 
 
 " With you," he said, with a courteous inclination and 
 a smile from the lips. "And now let me explain my 
 standing to you. I am not a rich man, but my income 
 will easily provide our creature comforts in a civilized 
 way. It is somewhere between six and seven hundred 
 a month without that which comes in from my work. 
 Not a princely fortune, but an assured one. So start in, 
 Eleanor, and make out a list of wants." 
 
 " There is nothing," I replied, feeling hot and un- 
 comfortable. 
 
 " That is not fair," he said, earnestly. " Why, Eleanor, 
 just forget what is past, and come down to an easy-going, 
 common-sensible view of the present. Are you not my 
 wife ? There, don't look so defiant. Perhaps I can find 
 another way to make you get what you want." 
 
 I found a packet of money on niy table that evening. 
 
135 
 
 But I cannot take his money. I want Geoffrey to send 
 my allowance regularly to our London address. 
 
 Griff was waiting for us on board. He is always with 
 us. At sight of the stunted little figure and ugly, peace- 
 ful face a feeling of calm possessed me, and not only 
 calm, but comfort and respectability ; do you know what 
 I mean ? It was as if his presence made my position 
 less false, as if a chaperon had been provided, and all 
 was more proper and as it should be. In my cabin was 
 a huge bunch of chrysanthemums and some dainties 
 which Severn had sent. There were many comforts in 
 the way of cushions and rugs which made me very un- 
 comfortable, a feeling with which I am battling and 
 bravely trying to overcome. 
 
 Griff seems always near me. I do not know whether 
 the charge was self-appointed or whether Hall suggested 
 it. I only know that with -him within reach I could go 
 to sleep as fearlessly on deck as in the privacy of my 
 own cabin. Yet he is a man scarcely older than I. 
 There are souls so pure that they clarify the air about 
 them, and keep those within their reach out of all harm. 
 Hall has been busy with some writing which he prefers 
 doing below ; the sea, he says, distracts him. Still, I 
 ought not to be lonesome, if to be surrounded by friendly- 
 inclined people is to be accounted an antidote. There 
 are some charming English people, a handsome girl and 
 her brother, who seem to have formed an agreement 
 with each other that I am never to be left alone. The 
 girl told me that she took my "husband " to be a brother; 
 she thought there was a striking resemblance between 
 us. " But, then," she added, naively, " husbands and 
 wives often grow to look alike ; sitting opposite each 
 
136 
 
 other so often makes them adopt each other's facial ex- 
 pressions, just as people often in converse assimilate 
 each other's opinions." There is a young medical student 
 en route for Germany, an attache of the French legation, 
 and a widow with two daughters about Grace's and Edith's 
 age. When I look at them I say to myself, " Grace," or 
 " Edith." I never knew before what pretty names they are. 
 
 We were approached, as we stepped on board, by a 
 Mr. Talford. He is a distinguished -looking man of 
 about forty, a member of Hall's club, to whom I was in- 
 troduced. I did not like him at the first glance ; I think 
 his regard would bring a blush of resentment to the face 
 of any woman. He is a brilliant talker, in a satirical, 
 sceptical way has rather courtly manners. I always 
 turned to look for Griff when he drew near. He has 
 kept his distance, however, for the last few days. The 
 English girl had just gone below one morning and I had 
 reopened my Shelley, when this Talford made his way 
 over to me, and sat down in the chair she had just va- 
 cated. I glanced around for Griff ; he was not in sight. 
 He had possibly gone in to do some copying for Hall. I 
 assumed the defensive at once. 
 
 " Shelley ?" he said, taking the book from me. " Will 
 you allow me to divine the bit that has charmed you 
 most of late ?" 
 
 " You are not a mind -reader, I hope," I said as pleas- 
 antly as I could, looking beyond him to the water. 
 
 " Only sympathetic," he replied in a low voice, as he 
 turned the pages. I could feel my heart flutter omi- 
 nously, but I thought it best not to answer. Presently he 
 was reading, in a gentle, significant tone. You know the 
 lines, perhaps : 
 
137 
 
 "I can give not what men call love; 
 
 But wilt thou accept not 
 The worship that hearts lift above 
 
 And the heavens reject not : 
 The desire of the moth for the star, 
 
 Of the night for the morrow, 
 The devotion to something afar 
 
 From the sphere of our sorrow?" 
 
 I had turned my face as far from his view as possi- 
 ble. 
 
 " There comes a void, a desire like that to every one 
 once in a lifetime," he went on, easily. " The humility 
 does not last long, however. It is only distance, the un- 
 known, which exalts the vision. The nearer we get to 
 the stars we lose the sparkle in viewing the component 
 parts which made the glow. Knowledge is disappoint- 
 ing." 
 
 "Not if you are clever enough to catch the comical 
 side," I murmured. 
 
 " The bathos of pathos, do you mean ? It's the one 
 side I see. But I believe it has entirely escaped you. 
 After the manner of women, you conceive the melo- 
 drama of life to be a serious tragedy, over which you find 
 it impossible to smile. And yet that, too, will pass." 
 
 " What ?" I asked, staring stonily at him. 
 
 "Your disappointment. Women young women 
 expect too much ; they are grieved when their imagina- 
 tion does not materialize, and they either enjoy the un- 
 happiness or consider it frivolous to relieve themselves. 
 Let me tell you, Mrs. Kenyon, when a man finds himself 
 neglected in one quarter he will set about to find the 
 means to fill in the chink. And though you must re- 
 member that art is a jealous mistress, I think it is ex- 
 
138 
 
 disable and philosophical if one were to seek some 
 diversion for one's self." 
 
 " When I am seeking diversion," I said, slowly, " I'll 
 call upon you for a plan, Mr. Talford. But at present 
 I do not need your assistance." 
 
 He laughed lightly and leaned forward. " Is that 
 meant for a dismissal ?" he said. " Don't be rash. One 
 suddenly needs a knight sometimes." 
 
 It was too much ! I could feel myself turning white. 
 At that moment Hall's head appeared above the com- 
 panion-way. With a gravely ironical bow Talford turned 
 away. Hall, catching sight of me, came across. He 
 looked at me curiously, and interposed his figure be- 
 tween me and the passengers moving about. 
 
 " What is it, Eleanor ?" he asked. " Are you ill ?" 
 
 u No," I managed to answer ; " I have been insulted, 
 that's all." 
 
 His face turned red. 
 
 "Talford?" he questioned. I pressed my lips hard. 
 I was shaking miserably. 
 
 " What did he say, Eleanor?" 
 
 " Oh, it was nothing much, I suppose," I almost 
 sobbed. " He was only offering his sympathy for for 
 my * being alone.' " 
 
 His hand went quickly to my shoulder and rested 
 there. 
 
 " Forgive me," he said, in deep earnestness. " It was 
 my fault. I brought it upon you. But I'll show the 
 fellow that he has some one to answer to !" 
 
 " No, no," I protested, hastily. " Don't say any- 
 thing to him. He is not worth noticing and I am all 
 right." 
 
139 
 
 Hall's writing has been neglected since then. And 
 still I am sorry he saw. One of ray most passionate 
 desires is not to hamper him in any way. 
 
 Last night they decided to give a dance. The medical 
 student has musical fingers, and promised to play until 
 we grew tired. Hall excused himself from attending, as 
 he had some letters to write anent our landing to-mor- 
 row. The Townshends the English people begged me 
 to come in notwithstanding, and I went. The salon 
 looked bright and pretty everybody seemed gay and 
 happy. At the first chords of the waltz I could scarcely 
 keep the tears from my eyes. When one is unhappy 
 the gayest music is sad. But I danced. I was always 
 accounted a good dancer my brains in my toes; a 
 good place to keep them in a ball-room. I could feel 
 Talford's eyes upon me from the first. He soon be- 
 gan to annoy me, and finally I slipped out of the door- 
 way. I was feverish and excited. The dancing had af- 
 fected me like wine. 
 
 Without a thought I hurried to Hall's cabin and 
 knocked at the door. He opened it immediately. 
 
 " You ! That's right ; come in," he said, looking 
 surprised as he held the door open. I stepped quickly 
 past him, and he shut the door. 
 
 " Grown tired already ?" he asked, drawing up the 
 chair for me and seating himself on the bed. He looked 
 pale and weary, and my heart was filled with a yearning 
 tenderness. 
 
 " No ; but I thought you must be," I answered, wist- 
 fully. " Can't you leave your writing for a while and 
 come in and dance ? Miss Townshend is so anxious to 
 measure steps with you." 
 
140 
 
 He smiled quietly as he leaned slightly back against 
 the pillow. " Sit down," he said. " I'd rather talk than 
 dance." 
 
 I glanced at his writing materials, longing to stay, yet 
 hesitating oddly. 
 
 " I finished some time ago," he said. " The music 
 has disturbed me too much." As he spoke the melody 
 changed. The musicians had begun that minuet Grace 
 played the first time I met Hall Kenyon to know him. 
 I started and looked toward him; strangely enough, his 
 smile showed that he remembered, too. The old mood 
 took possession of me. I made him a deep courtesy, 
 laughing as I did so. Once started, I entered into it 
 with my old-time nonsense. By a curious coincidence, 
 I had on the same pale gray gown. As I swayed back- 
 ward and forward in the narrow space I could feel my 
 hair loosening from the gold comb with which I had 
 loosely gathered.it up. Suddenly, just as I neared him, 
 it tumbled about me, and I stopped on the instant, put- 
 ting up my hand to gather it together. 
 
 " Don't," he said, staying me, and reaching out hts 
 hand towards it. " What beautiful hair you have !" 
 He was standing close beside me, and I made to draw 
 back ; but his hand still held the mass of loosened hair, 
 and at my movement he drew my head to him and 
 kissed me. It was the first time my husband's lips had 
 touched mine, and I sprang back as though he had of- 
 fered me an insult. So might he have kissed a Nautch 
 girl anybody. 
 
 " How dare you !" I cried, shrinking against the panels 
 as far as possible from his reach. The flush of admira- 
 tion still lit his eyes as he answered : 
 
141 
 
 " Ah, Eleanor, you were too beautiful just now ! Ex- 
 cuse the impulse on that plea," he demurred. 
 
 " Well, don't do it again," I said, not meeting his 
 eyes, and rubbing my lips with my handkerchief, as a 
 child shows its distaste for the same unasked token. 
 
 Seeing that I was more than indignant, he added, " I 
 shall try to remember." He handed me my comb 
 deferentially. I knotted up my hair, wished him good- 
 night, and left him. 
 
 I was trembling violently when I reached my cabin. I 
 felt so common so wanton, Constance ! 
 
 I had meant to attract him. But I did not know 
 what I was doing till I had achieved the result. I 
 wished I were home with you, safe in my little white 
 bed. Oh, Constance, angel, why am I not like you? 
 No one would dare make you feel as I felt then. He 
 does not understand, of course. He does not know 
 that I want something higher than mere beauty-homage. 
 We get what we deserve. Help me to deserve some- 
 thing better. I am going to try. I thought it all out 
 last night. I have found a model. Do you mind much, 
 dear? I am going to try to be like you. I am going 
 to lock the door upon my selfish, passionate past, and 
 begin over again. Pray for me. 
 
 ELEANOR. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 PARIS, September , 18. 
 
 AGAIN I take up my self-centred diary, this egoistic 
 record of a heart which asks for no answer only for a 
 hearing. My postal-cards and letters have been for all ; 
 this is for you and myself alone, for you have become 
 as my confessor. 
 
 I jotted all the observations of our travelling in those 
 other communications; in this to you I need speak 
 only of the incidents that befell me in these far-away 
 lands, where the surroundings were but shadows to me, 
 where the only reality was the man beside me. It is of 
 these memories, which would have been as dreams but 
 for his presence, of which I tell you. 
 
 To-day I have little recollection of the beauties and 
 wonders of museums, galleries, and cathedrals, or even of 
 the great Abbey ; small memory of movement from place 
 to place in the London immensity ; I only recall an im- 
 pression of grandeur and strangeness, and always that 
 Hall has walked beside me. 
 
 It was afterwards, when we were loitering through the 
 Surrey country and had settled down in a Kentish vil- 
 lage, that I began to realize my entity and know that this 
 was my life ! But it was a life so different from the 
 past that I seemed to have gone into another existence 
 a period of peace as after death, before which all had 
 been delirium. Perhaps I was emotionally weary, for 
 
143 
 
 nothing soothed me more than the sound of the chil- 
 dren's voices the two little maids of the kindly English 
 gentlewoman with whom we had taken rooms. One of 
 them has a bird - voice just like our Nan's ; when she 
 talks and I close my eyes, I can see a little American girl 
 with Do you know, these little ones grew to like me ! 
 I did not think I cared much for children, but I am glad I 
 do ; their little hands and caresses fill out the hollows of 
 both cheek and heart. I am gladder still that they can 
 love me. Child-love is so true ; it is all spontaneity, a 
 spontaneity which is seldom misled ; there must be 
 something good in me if children turn to me. But I 
 have never seen a man more passionately fond of chil- 
 dren than is Hall ; they knew it, and were as happy as 
 he when with him. Those were good days. 
 
 Passion is love's vanity. I am endeavoring to drop it ; 
 it wants too much and gets too little. I think we both 
 grew gentler in the quiet English country. We had 
 some walks and talks, in which we each showed the other 
 some of self, without the fever and turmoil of emotions. 
 We put our quicker, warmer beings behind us, and met 
 as kindly friends. It was a difficult task at first, Con- 
 stance, this seeming ; but under it I felt myself growing 
 broader and more self-respecting. In the country time 
 lounges, and our pulses beat more slowly in consequence. 
 
 But I knew it could not last ; I felt him growing rest- 
 ive. One morning I heard him among the trees with the 
 children ; they were shouting merrily, and, as his deeper 
 tones reached me, I was glad to feel that I could listen 
 so calmly. Presently I saw him making his way towards 
 me across the sunlit grass, his hat pushed from his brow, 
 his face warmly flushed such a picture of vigorous man- 
 
144 
 
 hood as one seldom sees in life. He seated himself on 
 the railing of the porch where I sat in the shadow of the 
 rose-trellises, and looked at me with a slightly quizzical, 
 slightly hesitating smile in his eyes. 
 
 " Something new in view ?" I asked, returning the 
 smile. I had overcome much of my self-conscious awk- 
 wardness in his presence, and our conversations had 
 fewer angles and empty spaces. 
 
 He laughed lightly in turn. " Is my face placarded ?" 
 he questioned. " You read me very accurately." 
 
 " It is not ambiguous to me," I returned. " You are 
 contemplating a move." 
 
 " Eight. I felt rather paralyzed a few minutes ago. 
 What do you say to Paris ? Does the shock upset you ?" 
 
 I laughed with him. " No. When do you wish to 
 start this evening ?" 
 
 He looked at me with bright satisfaction. " Could 
 you get ready ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " You are a good fellow," he cried, bringing his hand 
 heartily down upon my shoulder. I winced under the 
 spirit, not the manner, of his approval. " That is where 
 your congeniality comes in, Eleanor ; you don't find it 
 necessary to protest and be coaxed in order to give your 
 final agreement more value, as most women do in every 
 trivial affair. You practise a splendid nerve economy." 
 
 "And then it flatters your good judgment. I have 
 merely learned to hurry noiselessly." 
 
 He gave me a quick look, as though reminded of some- 
 thing. " Can I help you with your packing?" he asked. 
 " You look so leisurely, sitting there on that settee. I 
 feel as though you needed pushing." 
 
145 
 
 " I have plenty of time ; ray belongings are easily put 
 together. It is only yours that are scattered all over the 
 place. You had better begin to gather them up." 
 
 " I intend mating a holocaust of most of my papers ; 
 Griff is sorting them now. Want to witness the sacrifi- 
 cial flames?" 
 
 I followed him into the little sitting-room, where a 
 small wood-fire was burning. Griff had arranged several 
 piles of MSS. upon the table. Presently he was passing 
 them, one at a time, to Hall, with a word of explanation 
 concerning their material. Most of them the latter tossed 
 carelessly into the fire, watching them burn and blacken, 
 with a comment of indifference or depreciation. Others 
 he hesitated over and consigned to the folding-desk, alleg- 
 ing that he might " work them up " for posterity or the 
 edification of his library drawer. When near the end 
 Griff passed him a rather bulky package. As Hall took 
 it from him, his face and figure lost their easy complai- 
 sance at once. 
 
 " That is the story you were engaged upon while in the 
 West," Griff explained, mistaking his silence for confu- 
 sion of memory. 
 
 I looked towards him with a start. He had drawn 
 nearer the fire with the manuscript, and I moved swiftly 
 to his side. 
 
 " Is that that novel ?" I asked, in impulsive bravery. 
 
 " Yes. What do you know about it ?" 
 
 " Why, you read the end in my presence ; the begin- 
 ning was " 
 
 " Yes, yes. It's worth nothing now. It is fit for ob- 
 literation. Just move a little, please." 
 
 "Wait ! don't !" I exclaimed, grasping his arm. "Put 
 10 
 
146 
 
 it with the others. You will read it over some day when 
 you will be able to acknowledge its power." 
 
 " Never is far away. Take your hand off, Eleanor." 
 
 " No, I shall not. You must not do it !" I cried, with 
 sudden vehemence, keeping a tight hold on the papers. 
 " I tell you it is too good to be lost. I recall it per- 
 fectly. Some day you will thank me for having saved it." 
 
 " You tempt me to rudeness," he said, with restrained 
 annoyance. " This thing is especially hateful to me. I 
 don't want to see it again. Loosen your fingers, Eleanor." 
 
 " Please give it to me" I entreated, in compromise, 
 steadily meeting his angry eyes. " You shall never be 
 annoyed by sight of it. But I beg it of you. It is the 
 first favor I have asked you." 
 
 The blood rose curiously to his face, which has never 
 regained its warm glow ; he hesitated a second, and then 
 let go. " Well, if it will make you happy," he observed, 
 with cynical weariness, " take it." 
 
 I thanked him quietly, and went away with it. There 
 is" an old folk-lore tale of a house which was built from 
 the pinnacle downward you know, or can imagine, its 
 length of endurance. I am doing better I took for a 
 foundation a bundle of papers. 
 
 A week later we arrived in Paris, travelling, as you 
 know, down through Normandy and Brittany. As we 
 approached the city I could feel the delirium of expecta- 
 tion attacking my pulses. After a day here I had left 
 the long peace of the country and the sweet breath of 
 the North far behind me. 
 
 Paris holds a strange incident for me. I have en- 
 deavored to lead up to it gradually. I wanted you to 
 know that under different circumstances and surround- 
 
147 
 
 ings our characters work out different histories. In Paris 
 life knows few deep pauses. To withdraw into one's self 
 would be to miss part of the spectacle which provides 
 the Parisian with his inexhaustible esprit. We caught up 
 with the pace. Hall ran across some old artist and liter- 
 ary friends, and is acquainted with our American Minis- 
 ter ; they all seemed anxious to honor him and his wife. 
 This constant social ferment must be what keeps Paris 
 laughing aloud; she is a coquette who ridicules the 
 trace of tears. 
 
 I cannot explain how it happened, but we had been 
 here two weeks before we put foot into the Louvre. Ah, 
 Constance, it is such a strange thing that I must relate 
 to you ! I had thought had hoped Love, love, you 
 know him better; you will understand, perhaps, that it 
 could not have been otherwise for him. 
 
 " I am going to satisfy a long-felt curiosity," I told 
 him, as we sauntered on, " in seeing the Lady of Milo. 
 From the casts and photographs I have seen I have never 
 fully appreciated, or even understood, her. She has al- 
 ways been a mystery to me she seems too grave for 
 love. Heine's ecstasy over the original is incomprehen- 
 sible to me as yet. But his poem portrays the sublime 
 passion with which she evidently inspired him." 
 
 " Which poem ?" he asked, with interest. 
 
 " Don't you know it ? I think I can repeat a part of 
 it. In reverting to the last time he looked at her he 
 said : * Though she looked down on me with compassion, 
 it was compassion without comfort, as though she would 
 say, " Seest thou not that I have no arms, and so cannot 
 give thee help ?" Even with arms a woman may be help- 
 less as '" 
 
148 
 
 " Yes," lie interrupted, roughly, " as a goddess whose 
 feet rest on a pedestal. What was that poem ?" 
 " It is an ode. I recall these lines : 
 
 " 4 perfect form of perfect woman, clad 
 
 In that sweet light not born of earth, but drawn 
 From those high realms that bend above the gods, 
 Whose sun has lent the softest of its light 
 To cling forever round this splendid form 
 That cares not for our worship, nor the love 
 Of pilgrims drawn by unseen links to lay 
 Their highest love highest, since no desire 
 Can ever mingle with it at thy feet ! 
 Thou wert to me as sunshine to the day, 
 The presence by whose side I knelt, and saw 
 The shadowy curtains of the land of dreams 
 Lift, as a morning mist takes to the hills, 
 And thine the voice that, soft as April rain, 
 Bade me rise up and enter ! . . . 
 But thou who standest with no arms to clasp 
 Thy worshipper, nor tears to dim the light 
 In those pure eyes of thine ! how can I say 
 Farewell and pass from thee ?' 
 
 Would you call it an exaggeration?" I asked, after a 
 pause, as he did not speak. 
 
 " No," he answered, shortly. And then abruptly added, 
 as though wishing to forget the subject, " You interpret 
 poetry as you sing intensely. Your voice grew as deep- 
 ly sad over those closing lines as though you had felt 
 such a farewell." 
 
 " Oh," I laughed, easily, " haven't you suspected that 
 I was meant for an actress ?" He looked at me curious- 
 ly as we passed in. 
 
 When we stood before her in the long gallery I felt a 
 
149 
 
 singular awe. I do not know how long I remained there 
 in silent contemplation. But I know now the meaning of 
 her majesty ; she is Love that is sure of itself, thought- 
 ful without passion deathless ! Not that little Love 
 which desires return, but that greater Love which is self- 
 sufficing. 
 
 I was about to turn to him when something, a flicker- 
 ing sunbeam upon the sculptured hair, arrested me. I 
 felt a surprised start of recognition. In a moment the 
 cold, still woman was no longer a chiselled idea. Con- 
 stance, it was you ! 
 
 I cannot explain the resemblance. It is less in form 
 and feature than in the soul pervading it; but it is 
 there unquestionably. Quickly the thought flashed 
 through me, " Has he seen ?" Was the statue to him the 
 embodiment of his lost love ? Ah, the old, overwhelm- 
 ing jealousy had seized me ! 
 
 I turned to look at him. He was gone ! Then he had 
 felt it ! You had come before him ! He had not wished 
 me to see its effect upon him. I walked from sculpture 
 to sculpture, standing still before each, but seeing noth- 
 ing. An eager voice accosted me. Helen Glynn came up 
 
 with beaming eyes ; she is studying in X 's studio, 
 
 you know. She had been sketching, and had just caught 
 sight of me. I wonder what she thought of my abstrac- 
 tion. But her attendant soon came along, and she left, 
 promising to visit me. 
 
 I looked around for Hall. He was not in sight. I 
 felt cold and uncomfortable in the strange crowd. Per- 
 haps an hour later I saw Griff making his way toward 
 me. 
 
 " We have become separated," I explained to him, al- 
 
150 
 
 most with a cry of relief. "Did you see Hall as you 
 came along?" 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Kenyon. Shall we go home now ?" 
 
 " Why, no ; I must wait," I said, regarding him with 
 wonder. " He Hall will be looking for me, of 
 course !" 
 
 " No," returned the boy, earnestly ; " he will not look 
 for you. I met him on the street a half-hour ago. I 
 stopped him. He told me not to deter him. He said he 
 had been called hastily away. He did not look well, 
 by-the-bye." 
 
 I stood still, understanding but imperfectly. My pal- 
 lor did not escape Griff. 
 
 " Do not be frightened, Mrs. Kenyon," he said, with 
 a reassuring smile. " I have known him to run away 
 like this before. It was once when greatly disturbed 
 over the return of a manuscript. It is a mood, a whim, 
 which he allows as a sort of hair-shirt to moderate strong 
 pain. It's part of his temperament. I don't know what 
 has disturbed him to-day, but he'll turn up all right soon. 
 Shall we move on ?" 
 
 His words gave me some assurance, and I went out 
 with him. He is like a great silent watch-dog. We reached 
 home, but Hall was not there, nor did he come. Think, 
 Constance ! Days succeeded days, and yet he did not 
 come ! The days grew to weeks. Griff told me to be 
 calm, not to be frightened, or I should have been crazed. 
 In fact, I think I was very quiet and gentle in my bewil- 
 derment and fear. Perhaps I caught a little of Griff's 
 patience. Griff and I are very sympathetic, and, alike, 
 we make little noise, and sit or move out together in 
 perfect understanding and unison. 
 
151 
 
 Yet I received no word from Hall. I did not expect 
 it. Griff gave me a hint kindly, reassuringly. Such a 
 flight is only one of those sharp peculiarities, untrained 
 idiosyncrasies, which Hall's solitary, independent life of 
 leisure has had no domination to uproot. I shall grow 
 used to them, perhaps, as Griff has ; they are weaknesses, 
 not vices, Constance. As such they do not make me 
 love him less. " I tell you, absolutely, he will turn up, 
 and that all right, soon," Griff had said, and I clung to 
 his words as to an oracle. 
 
 And then, one day, as I sat with a bit of sewing in my 
 hand, Hall came home ! Will you understand how I have 
 changed when I say that I did not start, that I could 
 even look up with a quiet smile into his face ? It was 
 worn but calm. 
 
 " Good-afternoon," I said, with a nod, continuing my 
 sewing. 
 
 He came and stood by my side, silent for a moment. 
 He struggled to say something. "Eleanor," he mur- 
 mured, and his hand touched mine. I did not repulse it. 
 Several seconds passed before he went on in a self- 
 angered tone. " I've been a brute," he said. " I can't 
 ask you to forgive me ! And and I can't explain my- 
 self." 
 
 " Then don't try," I returned, hastily, looking up. " It's 
 all right !" 
 
 He looked at me, as though scarcely understanding 
 me. " I forgot everything. I forgot that afternoon !" 
 he went on, as if goaded to explain. " I left you like a 
 madman !" 
 
 " No," I remonstrated ; " you had not grown used to a 
 wife's presence, that was all." 
 
152 
 
 " It can never happen again," he said. " I lived alone 
 too long, Eleanor. I have never had to account to any 
 one for my actions. I am egoist to the bone. Heaven 
 help you, my poor girl, with such a protector !" 
 
 I laughed softly and shook my head. He sat down 
 wearily. I continued my sewing. The restrained ex- 
 citement had made my cheeks burn and my hands fever- 
 ish. I could feel his eyes intently resting on me for a 
 long, silent time. 
 
 " I have never seen you sew before," he said, present- 
 ly, leaning back with half-closed eyes. 
 
 " I sometimes do," I returned, without looking up. 
 
 " It is womanly work, and pretty. What is it you are 
 working over so industriously ?" 
 
 My heart began to flutter rapidly. His voice, so long 
 unheard, possessed a gentle inflection which was almost 
 yearning in its weariness. I felt myself flush as I looked 
 up with a shy laugh. " Guess," I said. " It is dread- 
 fully prosaic." 
 
 " Is it ? It looks like a stocking." 
 
 " I am darning. Over and under, and in and out, like 
 life half on top and half underneath ; but patience will 
 fill out a perfect whole. What an execrable pun !" 
 
 He came to my side and looked down with odd inter- 
 est. " Let me see it closer. Why, this is a sock ! Mine ?" 
 he asked, flushing. 
 
 " I had nothing else to do, and I thought you would 
 not mind the bit of interference." 
 
 He put it back into my hand without a word. It seems 
 a foolish thing to relate to you, but I am merely telling 
 you the records of my heart not of my memory and 
 they are sometimes very trivial to a second person. 1 
 
153 
 
 know he exaggerated the commonplace Joanesque domes- 
 ticity out of all proportion. He has never had any one 
 to do for him, and he is unusually susceptible to the small- 
 est mark of interest. 
 
 After dining that night we went to the comedie. Just 
 before we left he knocked at my door. 
 
 " May I come in?" he asked, as I held it open ; and he 
 walked into the room. " Will you wear these violets to- 
 night, Eleanor ? It is my favorite flower, and they will be- 
 come you." 
 
 Perhaps they were only a peace-offering, but I almost 
 cried out with pleasure. They were such a handful of 
 fragrance and joy for me. 
 
 " They remind me of home," I said, unsteadily, while 
 he watched me tuck them into my corsage. 
 
 The next day he asked me whether I cared to go down 
 to Italy. " We can make our home in Rome for the 
 winter," he said. "I think you would enjoy it." 
 
 He said " home ;" it had a beautiful sound. I shall 
 write to you from there. 
 
 ELEANOR. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 NEW YORK, March , 18. 
 
 NOT Rome, you see, dear Constance. I promised to 
 write next from there ; but the best plans are only prom- 
 ises which circumstances must sometimes break for us. 
 The one short letter I dropped you all before quitting 
 Venice would have answered for every one of our loiter- 
 ing stoppages on the way to the City of Memories. I 
 can hear Grace complaining of the meagreness of de- 
 scription it contained, but tell her I was just about to 
 anticipate something. I must proceed more quietly. Do 
 you remember, Constance, how we used to laugh over the 
 honeymoon descriptions some of our girl-brides used to 
 give? "Perfect!" "Glorious!" " Utterly indescriba- 
 ble !" They never could go any further in their nai've 
 admission. Ask Grace to be as lenient to my discrep- 
 ancy as we used to be to theirs. 
 
 We had been only a week in Rome when Hall received 
 news of Severn's illness. It seemed to draw him up 
 sharply. He grew grave, almost taciturn, on the instant, 
 and I could feel the disturbance it occasioned him, for 
 the mood did not wear off. He was quiet, abstracted, and 
 slightly nervous all through that day, and the next he ad- 
 mitted his concern. 
 
 " I think I shall send Griff on to him," he said, pausing 
 in his march up and down the room in the evening. " He 
 will at least then have some one other than paid attend- 
 ants beside him. Eleanor?" 
 
155 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 He glanced at me swiftly, bit his lip, and turned ab- 
 ruptly away. " No, nothing," he returned, shortly, con- 
 tinuing his walk. 
 
 " Did you you want to go yourself, Hall ?" I 
 asked, throwing my book aside and looking at him ex- 
 pectantly. 
 
 He flushed ; but you know his candor. " I suppose 
 it is another of my idiotic ideas," he confessed ; " but 
 you have guessed it, Eleanor. However, I have no in- 
 tention of gratifying it." 
 
 " Why not 3" 
 
 " We are settled here for the winter." 
 
 " But we are not married to the place, as nurse used 
 to say." 
 
 " That is true," he answered, with a smile. " But, 
 though we are married to each other, I have no desire 
 to make your life a series of jumps." 
 
 I laughed merrily. " You could leave me," I suggested, 
 after a pause. 
 
 He stood still, and turned upon me quickly. " Do 
 you mean that ?" he demanded, quite as quietly as I had 
 spoken. He seated himself upon the window-sill near 
 which he stood. He was perfectly still as he awaited 
 my answer. 
 
 " W T hy, yes," I answered, somewhat uncertainly, though 
 I could go no further in my equivocation. 
 
 " Oh !" That was all the comment vouchsafed. He 
 looked straight ahead for several seconds before he add- 
 ed, simply, " You know I would not go without you." 
 
 " Then we could go together," I returned, lightly. 
 "After all, you know Severn is my cousin." 
 
156 
 
 " Don't give in to me so easily, Eleanor," he enjoined, 
 seriously, as he met my eyes. 
 
 " In the struggle for existence, sir," I replied, " the 
 weaker always goes to the wall." 
 
 " Am I such a brutal tyrant ?" 
 
 " Unconsciously yes," I laughed. " However, in 
 this instance my will does not suffer complete extinction. 
 New York is " 
 
 " Well ?" he urged. 
 
 " I have quite finished." 
 
 " No ; what were you going to say ? * New York is' 
 what ?" 
 
 But I had no intention of completing my impetuous 
 sentence, and our eyes flashed as they met ; but he let 
 the question go. Two days later, as we cabled you, we 
 left for New York. 
 
 And here we have been domiciled in New York with 
 Severn, in this beautiful apartment-house, for the past 
 three weeks. Poor fellow ! He could scarcely under- 
 stand that we intended staying with him till he has 
 fully recovered. He pooh-poohed the idea as vigorously 
 as he could in his weakened state, but with a sort of 
 sneaking pleasure over our obduracy. 
 
 I immediately assumed the position of commander-in- 
 chief in the sick-room, and it was pitiful to see how 
 much he made of the fact that one of his own and a 
 woman, at that was caring for him. " Nurse Eleanor " 
 he and Hall dubbed me at once ; whereupop I twisted a 
 lace handkerchief, cap -fashion, upon my head, to be in 
 character, and they have pronounced it vastly becoming. 
 Hall attends to Severn's important affairs and keeps him 
 in the best of spirits, while I am " seeing to things," I tell 
 
157 
 
 him, with an air of mock importance. The pleurisy was 
 very sharp, and his complete recovery will be slow. He 
 gets quite impatient at times men have not our sex's 
 inherent submission in physical trials. 
 
 While Hall is out I read or talk to Severn. We have 
 had some beautiful hours. We had been here but a few 
 days when I received a box of jacqueminot roses one 
 morning with Severn's card. I was expostulating with 
 him over the pretty extravagance when we were alone 
 together later in the day. 
 
 "I know you like Kenyon's violets best," he said, put- 
 ting his hand over mine, as it rested on the sheet beside 
 him, " but I wanted to condone a former rudeness of 
 mine. You have grown to look like your rose-cousins 
 again, little girl, and I wanted you to know how glad 
 I am." 
 
 I was perceptibly startled as the purport of his words 
 occurred to me, for the blood rushed violently over my 
 face ; but afterwards we had, or, rather, he had, a long 
 talk about Hall. 
 
 He told me many little tales of his independent boy- 
 hood and adolescence, throughout which he had never 
 had to account for the gravest indiscretions to any au- 
 thority closer than his tutors or the college faculty ; of 
 his recklessness and Bohemian tendencies when he came 
 into manhood ; all of which, added to the charm of his 
 person and intellect, had provided him an easy entrance 
 to a brilliant circle of literary and artistic men of the 
 world. It had spoiled him with adulation almost irre- 
 sistibly from the first. I knew he was offering the lov- 
 ing critique of his peculiar friend as an apology for 
 much from which he supposed I had suffered, and I 
 
158 
 
 thanked him with a look for his tenderness when he 
 had finished. I feel that he knows us both pretty well, 
 and he wants to ward off all clashing ; but I think he 
 realizes that I am not the Eleanor of the past, for he has 
 ceased to quiz me as he used. 
 
 Last night dear Constance, if the writing is illegible 
 you will forgive me, I know, when you reach the end 
 last night we were all three together. We were very 
 merry, and, to speak truly, Hall and Severn soon became 
 so hilarious that my head began to throb with the un- 
 usual excitement, and I finally grew altogether silent, con- 
 tenting myself with smiling, with half-closed eyes, over 
 their anecdotes and reminiscences. 
 
 Hall quickly noticed my silence, and stopped abruptly 
 in a tale he was telling of some preposterous wager. 
 " What is wrong, Eleanor ?" he asked, hastily. 
 
 " I have a slight headache," I answered. " I think I 
 shall go to bed." 
 
 " We were too noisy," said Severn, with compunction. 
 " You do look sort of drooping, lady-rose. Can't we do 
 something for you ?" 
 
 " No," I smiled, rising wearily. " I shall make myself 
 a cup of tea and sleep the ache away." 
 
 I came over to shake up his pillows, and as I bent over 
 him he drew my face down to his. 
 
 "Kiss all around, Eleanor, as Constance says!" he 
 laughed, in his big-brotherly fashion, holding my face be- 
 tween his hands. " I wish my kiss could conjure off the 
 pain for you ; but perhaps Hall's can." 
 
 " Silly fellow !" I returned. " Let me go ; tea and quiet 
 are all I need." 
 
 " How do you like that, Kenyon ?" he questioned ; 
 
159 
 
 but I did not hear Kenyon's answer as I closed the 
 door. 
 
 I lit the spirit-lamp under my urn, and, while waiting 
 for the water to boil, settled myself on the divan with a 
 copy of Hall's first book. Have you ever seen it ? that 
 book of sketches, I mean. Most of them appeared in 
 the magazines, but two of them are new ; you will detect 
 them at once. They are powerful, I think written with 
 a clear, steady pen. He calls a spade a spade with an 
 almost brutal frankness in places, but he has adopted a 
 style which admits of few trimmings. 
 
 I had just grown interested, for the third time, in the 
 one called "Shadows," when he came in. He insisted 
 upon making the tea, and carrying a cup in to Severn ; 
 but he returned immediately, and we were soon drink- 
 ing our own together, as we had done once or twice be- 
 fore in our nomadic hotel life. I love to watch him 
 when he is in that quiet mood, the thoughtful, musing 
 look upon his face evidencing his contentment of mind. 
 
 Quite unexpectedly he looked across at me and said, 
 "What does that far-away look in your eyes mean, 
 Eleanor ?" we had been very quiet. " I have noticed it 
 several times in the past two weeks. It's a remarkably 
 hungry look. Anything wanting ?" 
 
 " Oh no !" I faltered ; and, being in a somewhat un- 
 strung state, the tears crowded to my eyes. I buried my 
 face in the cushion, not, however, quickly enough to es- 
 cape his observation. The unprecedented sight shocked 
 him curiously. I tried to control myself, but could not ; 
 and I cried silently for several minutes with my head in 
 the silken pillow. He made no sound or movement, but 
 when I at last turned my head I saw that he was quite pale. 
 
160 
 
 " I I was only silly," I stammered, sitting up. " For- 
 give me." 
 
 " Have I hurt you in any way ?" he asked, bluntly. 
 
 "No, no," I protested, hastily, drying my eyes. 
 " Don't you know that a woman often gets hysterical for 
 no definite reason ?" 
 
 "And you are sure you are quite well but for this 
 headache ?" he returned, still unconvinced. 
 
 I laughed, though somewhat unsteadily. " Of course. 
 It really was nothing." 
 
 "You can't evade me now, Eleanor. There is some- 
 thing haunting you. Out with it !" 
 
 But I shook my head. 
 
 " Then I'll guess," he ventured, playfully. 
 
 "You can't," I said, swiftly, with a burning face. 
 Then, because the anxious regard of his beloved counte- 
 nance drew me closer to his confidence, I added, " It 
 was all Severn's doing." 
 
 "Severn!" 
 
 "Yes; he he is so lov he reminds me so much 
 of the children and Constance." I tried to keep my 
 voice brave and steady, but it was altogether impossi- 
 ble. 
 
 " Ah, you are homesick." 
 
 " No, no," I pleaded, pained by the pain in his voice 
 as he so quickly grasped my trouble. 
 
 " But you are. After all, it is not to be wondered at. 
 This hop-skip-and-a-jump existence is not exactly what 
 you have been trained for. What have you been con- 
 sidering, Eleanor?" 
 
 " Only dreaming," I murmured, carried away by my 
 wistful heart and his insistence. My eyes were on the 
 
161 
 
 tip of my shoe as I drove it in and out the deep pile of 
 the carpet. 
 
 " Dreaming of what ?" he pressed, with gentle in- 
 dulgence. 
 
 " I have been dreaming rdreaming of a home," I re- 
 turned, abstractedly. 
 
 " Yes, dear ?" 
 
 "It was a visionary one." 
 
 " Perhaps not. Go on. I have an idea you could 
 make a very charming home, Eleanor." 
 
 " Have you, indeed ?" I asked, with some excitement. 
 " Shall I give you a design ?" 
 
 " Proceed, architect," he returned, half banteringly, as 
 though humoring me in a whim ; half earnestly, as though 
 with serious purpose. 
 
 "Well, this is one," I said, slowly, leaning back and 
 clasping my hands over my head, as I do when I let my- 
 self day-dream. " It is not a large house, but a broad 
 and sunny one. I should want each room to be beauti- 
 ful and individual, as though the furnishings were the 
 evolution of some particular motive, graceful or quaint, 
 rich or simple ; but each warm and welcoming, like faces 
 that bring peace or comfort at a glance. I should want 
 your study to be full of solid manliness and ease, where 
 you could write without disturbance. Of course, we 
 should entertain somewhat, because friction is broaden- 
 ing and brightening. I think yes, I think I should 
 make a feature of some ' perfect little dinners,' to which 
 we should have your brightest, most captivating, and 
 congenial friends not more than two or three at a time, 
 because I should want to ' make economies,' as that little 
 French lady said ; and after dinner we can always have 
 11 
 
162 
 
 I had been speaking excitedly, but I 
 noticed the glow which had slowly mounted to his 
 temples. 
 
 " Go on romancing, Eleanor," he said, as I paused to 
 take breath. " It sounds very alluring." 
 
 " That -is all," I said, with sudden shyness I had for- 
 gotten myself entirely. 
 
 " Well, let's go home, as the children say when they 
 feel tirecl, and go to such a home." 
 
 " To-night, sir ?" 
 
 " No, madam," he bowed. " In a week or two, when 
 Scott is quite well. Griff can stay and go with him to 
 the mountains." 
 
 " Why, I was only jesting," I objected, stunned by his 
 calm decision. " It was only an idle dream." 
 
 " Was it ? Would you not like it to materialize ?" 
 
 I gazed at him uncomprehendingly. I could not an- 
 swer. 
 
 " / should," he continued, with a grave smile over my 
 bewilderment. " Perhaps the fact that, heretofore, no 
 business or family ties have ever bound me to a place, or 
 recalled me with a trace of necessity or desire, has en- 
 gendered this roving spirit in me. But it is different 
 now. Why should we be forever on the wing? I am 
 tired of it, too ! The idea of going home to roost for 
 good and all is at last pleasant to me. Growing old and 
 less adventurous, Eleanor ! But I I should like to 
 build such a nest, where we can always find each other. 
 It is good. Where shall it be?" He spoke with 
 singular resolution. 
 
 " Could it be in San Francisco ?" I almost whispered, 
 in my intense amazement and happiness. 
 
163 
 
 " Certainly. Why not ?" 
 
 I strangled a sob before I answered. " Then I want 
 to ask you something more may I write and ask Con- 
 stance to find us a house to have it ready to step into 
 all but the touches which we shall bring and give to it 
 ourselves ?" 
 
 "Constance? Yes, she will know," he answered, qui- 
 etly and very gently. " Write to her, and tell her just 
 what you want." 
 
 Something sang in my heart all night, and early, early 
 this morning for he would not let me last night I got 
 up to write to you. Oh, Constance, we are coming home ! 
 It is ringing in my ears like marriage -bells coming 
 home ! coming home ! So find us a house, love, not 
 large, but cosey, with a pretty hall ; a pretty entrance is 
 like a happy promise. And remember, Griff will come 
 later Griff, who will adore you, Constance. And then 
 furnish it. See, I do not even ask, " Will you ?" We 
 come to our mothers unquestioningly. As for the rest? 
 Oh, you will know did not Hall say so ? Buy as for 
 yourself. Engage the maids ; let all be ready to receive 
 us on the day when we shall send you word ! And then, 
 angel, on the day after our return, when you and I are 
 sitting quietly together, holding each other's hands, I 
 shall have much to tell you ! 
 
 Constance, Constance ! will you be glad to see your 
 selfish, troublesome child again ? Pretend you will be ! 
 Pretend you love me because I love you so much. 
 And, Constance I am coming home, coming home! 
 Dear, I cannot see, I am crying so. ... 
 
 ELEANOR KENYON. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE stuffy Oakland local sped eastward. At every 
 whistle a little girl with a piquant, freckled face would 
 spring to her feet and exclaim, excitedly, " Here we are, 
 Grace ! Do get up now." 
 
 " Sit down, Marjorie," finally came the pleasant voice 
 from the gentle-faced girl beside her; "we won't be 
 there for fully five minutes yet." 
 
 " Do you think you'll know her, Grace ?" 
 
 " Of course, child. It isn't two years since she left." 
 
 " But she won't know me ; I've grown so ,big since. 
 Grace, you are terribly excited, too ; you are holding my 
 hand so tight that you hurt." 
 
 " Because I am afraid you'll fidget yourself out of the 
 door. Let me pull your hat straight. Do you want to 
 look like a little Western hoyden before your distin- 
 guished brother-in-law ?" 
 
 "What shall I call him?" asked the child, sitting still 
 while Grace retied the white silk ribbons under her chin 
 and pulled a few curls into view. 
 
 " Why, Hall, of course ! Now one more station." The 
 flush rose steadily over her face, and her hold on Mar- 
 jorie's hand tightened. Before the cry of " Sixteenth 
 Street!" had fairly left the conductor's lips they had 
 moved quietly and swiftly to the door. 
 
 The " Overland" whizzed into view a few minutes later. 
 As the long train passed, Grace caught a glimpse of a 
 
165 
 
 tall form and memorable face on one of the platforms, 
 and, grasping Marjorie's hand, hurried with her toward 
 the car. 
 
 Her foot had just touched the step when she felt a 
 hand upon hers, and she looked up into Kenyon's face. 
 
 " Grace !" he said, in low-voiced greeting, lifting the 
 child to his side and keeping his arm about her while 
 he shook Grace's hand in silence. "This is kind of 
 you," he added, after a second, his eyes resting with 
 steady friendliness upon her girlish face. " You will find 
 Eleanor inside. I'll come in presently with Marjorie." 
 He nodded toward the door, and Grace moved on. 
 
 In some bewilderment she passed with several others 
 down the aisle, scarcely scanning the faces of the pas- 
 sengers, conscious that the one she sought would stand 
 out before all others. 
 
 " Grace !" 
 
 She stood still. The low, sweet call was unexpected. 
 Standing before her was a woman one with a soft ra- 
 diance upon her beautiful face ! Grace caught her 
 breath* 
 
 " Eleanor I 1 ' she breathed, as the slender, gloved hand 
 drew her into the drawing-room. For a moment she 
 felt a lingering kiss upon her lips. Then she found 
 herself seated close beside her, the strangely lovely 
 eyes devouring her in painful ecstasy. 
 
 " You have grown to be such a pretty girl !" spoke 
 the changed, slow voice, so deeply happy that it trem- 
 bled on the verge of sorrow. 
 
 The tears rose unaccountably to Grace's eyes. She 
 was unprepared for the change and thoroughly unnerved ; 
 she could not speak. 
 
166 
 
 "Are you all alone?" asked Eleanor then. 
 
 " Marjorie is outside with your with Hall," she an- 
 swered, conquering her emotion. " Edith, you know, 
 is at Vassar " 
 
 " Yes, we saw her there. She is a very happy stu- 
 dent. But it seems queer to see you without your 
 chum." 
 
 " My demon, you mean yes, that will be the greatest 
 change of all to yon. But Constance thought it best to 
 let her have her way ; she thought it a very excellent 
 way for Edith. Constance was so sorry she couldn't 
 come. The mornings are still too cold for Nan, and 
 Constance seldom leaves her now." 
 
 " Then we shall go to them at once." 
 
 " No ; they are coming to your house directly after 
 luncheon. Nan is so excited that Constance said she 
 would try to make her sleep this morning. She knows 
 every corner of your house by heart, though she has 
 never been in it." 
 
 Kenyon came in with the child at that moment. 
 " There is your new sister, Marjorie," he said, lifting 
 her into Eleanor's arms, where she stayed until they 
 reached the slip. 
 
 About an hour later Grace came in upon Constance. 
 The latter had turned from the window where she had 
 been stationed for the last quarter of an hour, and re- 
 garded Grace in questioning anticipation. 
 
 " I did not know her, Constance," she replied, as 
 though still spellbound. " She is simply the most 
 beautiful woman I shall ever see. She is so changed, 
 too ! I can't describe her to you. There is a spirit- 
 ual radiance upon her face which makes it more like a 
 
167 
 
 dream-face than a human being's. She seems to have 
 struggled out of a conflict into an unfamiliar peace. 
 She is the same yet so new. And then her voice it 
 is like the murmur of quiet waters. But the change is 
 wider than on the surface. She is slower in every way. 
 When we reached the mole she saw that every one was 
 carefully out before she gave her hand to her husband to 
 be helped down. You remember how Eleanor used to 
 jump from a car or a train, and leave others to straggle 
 after her as best they could. I did not know her ; she 
 is no longer Eleanor Herriott she is Hall Kenyon's 
 wife. She has been tamed yes, that is it. Yet why 
 should it make me sad, Constance ?" 
 
 " You are excited, Grace. It is only the great happi- 
 ness of her home-coming which makes her look like that, 
 and brings these extravagant phrases from you." 
 
 " No ; you will feel it fully when you see her ! I no- 
 ticed people on the ferry turning to look at her. No 
 wonder; if I were a man I should fall hopelessly in love 
 at the first glance at such a face." 
 
 " She has her husband for that, dear," she said, gen- 
 tly stemming her romantic dreamer. " Has he changed 
 much ?" 
 
 " lie has grown older. He has the same striking phy- 
 sique, but his face has lost its glow ; so has his whole 
 personality. There is an air of imperturbability about 
 him now which makes me wonder what is going on be- 
 hind his brow. Oh, they looked so handsome as they 
 stood together on the steps of their house ! Eleanor 
 nodding Hall with his hat raised as we drove off." 
 
 For the two home-comers had mounted the steps of 
 their new home quite alone. Kenyon put into the lock 
 
168 
 
 the key Grace had given him, and threw open the door 
 to Eleanor. " Walk into your own, my lady," he said. 
 
 Eleanor stepped in past him. A bright fire was burn- 
 ing in the open grate of the quaint redwood-encased hall, 
 and as the friendly warmth of the blaze burst upon her, 
 she turned hastily back to him. 
 
 " Well ?" he asked, with a little laugh, throwing his 
 hat and overcoat upon a chair. 
 
 " It looks so beautiful," she faltered. 
 
 He laughed again, and took her hand in his. They 
 walked from room to room, saying little, but each feel- 
 ing the experienced, womanly knowledge which had 
 given to the house the atmosphere of a refined home. 
 They came, presently, into the shining, tiled kitchen, full 
 of savory odors of good cheer, where a plump, rosy- 
 cheeked German girl stood smiling and courtesying. 
 
 " You are Gretchen, aren't you ?" said Eleanor, com- 
 ing farther into the room, leaving Kenyon standing in 
 the doorway. The girl stammered something in answer, 
 and looked from one to the other in unreserved admiration. 
 
 " I hope you will like it here," continued her mis- 
 tress's sweet voice, " and that we shall get along nicely 
 together." 
 
 " I hope you like me !" exclaimed Gretchen, with un- 
 restrained bucolic fervor, impulsively disregarding gram- 
 matical time. 
 
 Kenyon, with an eye to effects, noted the picture be- 
 fore him : Gretchen, in bright blue calico gown, flaxen- 
 haired and blue-eyed, gazing with humble wistfulness at 
 the beautiful woman in her simple dark travelling-dress ; 
 behind them the glowing cooking-range, with its great 
 red eye and steaming pots. 
 
169 
 
 " You will get along capitally," he said, heartily ; and 
 after turning to say a word to the little French maid, 
 they went on up -stairs, but came down again shortly 
 after, and moved into the dining-room, with its table 
 prettily laid for two. 
 
 " You should say grace, Hall," suggested Eleanor, 
 glancing with a shy smile towards him, as they seated 
 themselves at either end. 
 
 "Your face supplies that," he said. "My lips are 
 overpowered in moments of joy." Eleanor caught a 
 swift, unfathomable look from him. The luncheon passed 
 merrily, Kenyon assuming the honors with exaggerated 
 ease. 
 
 " I must go down to the Custom-house directly," he 
 said, just before they arose, and he lit his cigar, at Elea- 
 nor's suggestion she was never averse to the smoke of 
 a good cigar. " There are three cases, I believe, with 
 our effects of travel." 
 
 " Yes, and the trunks," she supplemented, following 
 him into the hall. " Will you send that long, low one 
 up at once, please? I want it particularly this after- 
 noon." 
 
 " Want it particularly ?" he repeated, as he stooped 
 slightly to allow her to assist him with his overcoat. 
 " Have you found a particular want ? It will be a novel- 
 ty to gratify one for you." He was looking down at 
 her with a smile that seemed to come from a great 
 height. The smile was quickly succeeded by a faint 
 frown, and he put his hand under her chin and raised 
 her face. 
 
 " You are tired," he asserted. " Your eyes have great 
 shadows about them. Lie down and rest for a while." 
 
170 
 
 " I am not tired," she returned, flushing, and drawing 
 from his touch. " It is something quite different. Hall " 
 her breath seemed entangled before she could con- 
 tinue " Constance will be here presently." 
 
 " That is good to hear." Their eyes met steadily. 
 
 " Then I want you to come home and have tea with 
 us. Will you ?" 
 
 * I shall surely come," he replied, as he stooped and 
 lightly kissed her wistful eyes. " God bless our home, 
 dear," he murmured, earnestly. And as he picked up his 
 hat and gloves, he added, with a curious, abrupt laugh, 
 " Do you know, Eleanor, that you have never kissed 
 me ?" 
 
 She took a step forward, but as swiftly drew back be- 
 fore she reached him. " Wait till to-night," she prom- 
 ised, in low indistinctness. 
 
 " That's a long way off," he returned, with an irritated 
 laugh. " Many hours between now and then ! Better 
 Well, never mind ! I must be off." 
 
 When the door had closed behind him she moved up 
 to her pretty violet-hung bedroom. There she quickly 
 made her toilet, gathering her hair anew into the great 
 coil at the nape of her neck, and changing her travelling- 
 dress for a pale heliotrope gown which she had brought 
 with her in her bag. Then she wandered down into the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " It is a graceful room," she thought, moving noise- 
 lessly about. " No one but Constance could have ar- 
 ranged it. I shall not move a chair to-day. I suppose 
 it will take the kink of my taste soon enough. But to- 
 day" 
 
 The sound of rolling wheels came to a stand-still be- 
 
171 
 
 fore the house. Her hands caught at each other as if for 
 mutual support. She stood still as death, her eyes turned 
 towards the door. Presently the portiere was drawn 
 aside, and the grave, noble-faced woman looked in at her. 
 They advanced with outheld hands, which, groping, met 
 in a vise-like grasp as they stood and gazed deep into 
 each other's eyes. Then Constance drew the younger to 
 her in a close embrace. There was the sound of a pas- 
 sionate sob from Eleanor as Constance softly laid her 
 cheek upon hers. 
 
 They had drawn apart. Eleanor started with pain at 
 sight of Nan standing in the middle of the room with 
 her hand in Grace's. " Oh," she cried, brokenly, " little 
 Nan !" She sank on her knees with her arms about her, 
 and Nan's small, thin hand wandered over her face. She 
 was very light and frail now. Eleanor lifted her easily in 
 her arms. 
 
 " Take off your things, girls," she said, as she unfast- 
 ened Nan's wraps, " and draw your chairs up close." Her 
 happy eyes glanced in such satisfied joy from one to 
 another that Constance felt her throat swell when they 
 came to rest upon her. 
 
 There was scarcely any change in her own peaceful 
 face. Her eyes were, perhaps, filled with a graver light ; 
 her mouth had a slight new sadness in repose, but that 
 was all. 
 
 " How I miss Edith !" said Eleanor, presently. " Do 
 you remember, Constance, how you used to count us as 
 we all filed out of a car when we travelled anywhere? 
 I've been counting. It seems strange to think of our 
 wild girl as a quiet student." 
 
 " She is not a quiet one," put in Grace, noticing that 
 
172 
 
 Constance, too, was struck into momentary silence by an 
 intangible something in the face and voice of their new- 
 found sister. " She writes wild letters yet. Don't you 
 think it was queer that Edith, of all girls, should have 
 developed a reverential bump for anything as dry as 
 mathematics ?" 
 
 " I am glad you let her go," said Eleanor, thoughtfully. 
 " No matter how incongruous it seems, it is a providen- 
 tial ballast she was too much like me." 
 
 Just as she spoke a yellow envelope was handed her. 
 It was a telegram from the absent one saying, character- 
 istically : 
 
 I am with you all. EDITH. 
 
 " Poor girl !" smiled Eleanor, with wet eyes. The 
 current phrase had struck her as one of lonely longing. 
 
 " I wired her as soon as we received your despatch," 
 explained Constance, and when, shortly after, another 
 message, this time from Brunton, was brought her, Elea- 
 nor knew that her return had been scarcely less indiffer- 
 ent to those to whom she had come back than to herself. 
 
 " Dear old Geoffrey !" she mused, aloud. " How is he, 
 Constance ?" 
 
 " He is well. He had to go to San Jose. He will be 
 back in a few days, and is coming out at once to see 
 you." 
 
 And so they took up the broken threads of their lives, 
 and slowly, by question and answer, knotted them again 
 together. As the sun began to slant toward the de- 
 cline, Constance made a move to go. " It is getting late 
 for Nan," she said. 
 
 ** I have been waiting for Hall before making the 
 
173 
 
 tea," Eleanor explained, glancing toward the clock. " I 
 thought I heard his step in the hall some time ago. I 
 must have been mistaken. Perhaps he will come while 
 we are drinking. A waited-for person never comes, you 
 know, till you have stopped watching for him." 
 
 She looked so graceful at the pretty tea-table that 
 Constance wished he would come in then, but he did 
 not. The shadows grew longer, and Constance arose. 
 
 " It is too late, indeed," she said, " and the cabman is 
 growing impatient." 
 
 " I am sorry," said Eleanor, regretfully, "for he can't 
 be gone much longer now." 
 
 Nothing could have more strongly marked the change 
 in her personality than the easy patience of her words 
 and manner. There had been no disturbed movements 
 only the calm of implicit trust. Yet it was a calm that 
 disturbed Constance inexplicably. 
 
 " I am so happy," she whispered, raising her face to 
 kiss Constance as they stood on the door-step. 
 
 And Constance, kissing her, said, gently, " May you 
 always be so, darling. Be sure to come to-night or to- 
 morrow morning with Hall." She caught a fleeting 
 glimpse of her standing in the doorway and gazing up 
 the street as the carriage rolled off. 
 
 The next minute Eleanor turned and went in. " He 
 has been detained," she decided. 
 
 Catching sight of a huge bunch of violets on the hall- 
 table, she caught them up, and buried her face in their 
 fragrance. 
 
 " He must have sent them," she thought, with a little 
 intoxicated laugh. 
 
 She was singing softly as she pressed her lips to 
 
174 
 
 them and passed into the dining-room. She placed half 
 of them in a low bowl in the centre of the table already 
 laid for dinner, and then went into the kitchen for a sec- 
 ond to speak to the cook. She. was still singing softly 
 as she trailed up-stairs to her quiet bedroom, and, mov- 
 ing over to the window to draw down the blind, gazed 
 out upon the gathering dusk, while overhead, in the soft 
 spring sky, the glimmering stars stole forth in holy love- 
 liness. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 FOR many weeks Eleanor Kenyon had been anticipat- 
 ing every detail of this evening. With the love of an 
 artist who dreams over each line of his secret concep- 
 tion, so Eleanor, with the most magical of brushes, had 
 perfected the smallest accessory to her vision. 
 
 Now, as she lifted from the long, low trunk the shim- 
 mering white gown in its many wrappings, an expectant 
 serenity attended face and movement. It was the first 
 step toward fulfilment. And presently, when she stood 
 fully arrayed, her head and shoulders rising like a flower 
 from the filmy fall of rich lace, she turned her starry 
 eyes toward the glass, and regarded herself in still 
 pleasure. 
 
 " This is my wedding-night," she mused, " and this 
 my wedding -gown." She leaned her elbows on the 
 stand and rested her cheek in her clasped hands. " I 
 am glad that I am fair to look upon," was the long 
 thought, as her eyes travelled over her mirrored loveli- 
 ness ; " it was half the battle. I am glad to know that 
 his eyes must be pleased when they rest upon his wife. 
 Eleanor Kenyon, I kiss my hand to you." She was 
 grateful for the winsome reflection. 
 
 The color had risen slowly and softly over her face 
 when she turned away and went down to the drawing- 
 room, the violets in her hair breathing about her their 
 perfume of love. The light from the tall, shaded lamps 
 
176 
 
 lent a fairy glimmer to the apartment. She moved 
 about, drawing out the chairs, arranging a fold of dra- 
 pery, turning a vase, as a mother shakes out her child's 
 furbelows before presenting her. 
 
 " I think," she debated, looking around as she stood 
 still, " that he will sit there !" indicating a deep, low 
 chair. " And I shall take this odd little seat, and then " 
 she moved the smaller chair closer to the arm of the 
 larger " and then " she moved it slightly back again 
 " then I shall tell him and that will be the beginning !" 
 
 While she stood there feeding her happy fancy she 
 caught a glimpse of herself in the long glass opposite, 
 and started in bewildered surprise at the bride - like 
 vision. A playful little smile dimpled her mouth at the 
 unfamiliar aspect of her own presence, inward and out- 
 ward. " I scarcely know myself," she thought, with a 
 laugh. " I am Cinderella ! Cinderella, who dropped at 
 last her rags and cinders, and put on folderols and hap- 
 piness. But the prince is late." She glanced at the 
 little clock on the mantel. Nearly half -past six, she 
 saw, with vague uneasiness, but a faint smile. " I won- 
 der if he could possibly have forgotten that he is no 
 longer a bachelor, and have gone to dine at some club or 
 restaurant." She recalled, with amusement, the story of 
 a man who, the day after his marriage, forgot he was a 
 benedict, and went, as usual, to lunch at his father's 
 house, to his mother's unbounded consternation. 
 
 " I shall give him ten minutes' grace," she said, finally. 
 "If he does not come then, it will be time to grow 
 angry ; and if he is not here when the clock strikes 
 seven, I shall consider it a signal to begin to be alarmed." 
 She moved over to the window, pulled aside the dra- 
 
177 
 
 peries, and stood looking out at the falling night. The 
 lamplighter on his white horse moved, with his torch, 
 from post to post, and lit the street with mundane stars. 
 As he passed out of sight, and the flickering lights be- 
 spoke the night, Eleanor began to wonder. 
 
 " It is getting late," she thought, with a sick little feel- 
 ing about the heart. " Gretchen will soon announce that 
 dinner is spoiling. It's a shame, too, because Constance 
 ordered a very good dinner. And pshaw ! I am truly 
 growing angry!" She ended with an agitated laugh. 
 Her exuberance exhibited an undercurrent of increasing 
 excitement. As she turned toward the room the maid 
 pulled aside the portiere, and announced that dinner was 
 served. 
 
 " It will have to be delayed, Marie," replied her young 
 mistress. " Mr. Kenyon has not come in yet." 
 
 The servant dropped the curtain, and flew out to tell 
 Gretchen that madame was ravissante, and while, with 
 expressive eyes and hands, she proudly described the 
 Parisian gown for the wonder and humiliation of her 
 Teuton fellow, the striker of the great hall-clock began to 
 beat its mellow note of warning. 
 
 " I must have that stopped," meditated Eleanor. " I 
 hate being reminded that I am growing old." 
 
 The minutes slipped away. The two servants looked at 
 each other with some curiosity and unconscious enjoy- 
 ment over the odd situation. Suddenly Marie started up 
 as though recalling something. With an unintelligible 
 exclamation she hurried from the kitchen. When she 
 reached the doorway of the drawing-room, however, her 
 glib tongue was, for the moment, bereft of action as 
 
 she beheld Mrs. Kenyon seated in a strained attitude, 
 12 
 
178 
 
 her white face turned, as if in expectation, toward the 
 door. 
 
 " Madame pardon," finally faltered the girl, coming 
 into the room, her fingers twitching nervously at the 
 edges of her apron, " but did madame know ? Monsieur 
 Kenyon came home once this afternoon." 
 
 " Came home? When ?" demanded Eleanor, the color 
 leaping to her cheek and brow as she strove to keep her- 
 self in hand before the unfamiliar eyes of her maid. 
 
 " I think it was at four," considered the girl, earnest- 
 ly maybe four and a quarter yes. I was bringing 
 madame the water for the tea." 
 
 " Go on," she commanded, hoarsely. 
 
 "Monsieur Kenyon he came in the hall with the 
 bouquet and laid it on the table. He had his overcoat 
 and hat he looks like he hears something that gives him 
 fear; then he listens a minute, turns himself, and he is 
 gone !" 
 
 " Marie," came Eleanor's faint question, " you said he 
 seemed to hear to be listening? Do you remember 
 hearing anything, any sound, any noise ?" 
 
 " No," replied the girl, with bright, important eyes, 
 " nothing ; that is, only the sound of the voice of made- 
 moiselle, your sister Mees Herriott." 
 
 Without a word Eleanor let her head sink back upon 
 the cushions of her chair. She divined. And she quietly 
 fainted. 
 
 When the maid realized what had occurred she rushed 
 out to summon the cook, and presently they were bath- 
 ing her deathly face with brandy, and forcing a few drops 
 through her locked teeth. Many minutes passed, how- 
 ever, before consciousness returned. 
 
179 
 
 " Has Mr. Kenyon come ?" she asked, as she strove to 
 raise her head. 
 
 " Not yet, Mrs. Kenyon," returned the German girl, 
 compassionately. The other stood by, curious-eyed, ex- 
 cited, silent, as she watched her mistress's ineffectual 
 effort to speak. 
 
 " Leave me," at length came the command. 
 
 " But, Mrs. Kenyon," ventured Gretchen, gently, " din- 
 ner you have not " 
 
 " I told you to go !" 
 
 The girls started at the passionate voice, the brilliant 
 eyes, the quivering figure, the transformation of the 
 peaceful-faced woman of the morning to this wild-eyed 
 being. Characters suffer change, not death; in mo- 
 ments of strong emotion the old powers rise to confuse 
 and refute the personality which lies but surface deep. 
 The maids had not known Eleanor Herriott. She was 
 again here. They moved from her, half in terror, half in 
 hesitation, as she arose. 
 
 " I do not wish any dinner," Eleanor vouchsafed, as 
 though her throat were clinched to keep back the tur- 
 moil within her. " Close the house for the night." 
 
 The next minute she was alone. She stood motion- 
 less for a space ; then, without a glance behind her, 
 passed out and mounted the stairs to her room. 
 
 She locked the door fast, lit the gas, and again stood 
 moveless under the chandelier. Then, by one of those 
 mysterious impulses of consequence for which there is 
 no conscious accounting, she turned to her dressing-table, 
 seized a hand -mirror which lay there, stood a moment 
 holding it without looking into it; then, with a fierce 
 movement, dashed it violently to the floor. 
 
180 
 
 "Vain fool!" she imprecated, looking down at it ; and 
 lifting her foot, she ground her heel into the glass till it 
 lay splintered in bits. She was still very far from being 
 a Griselda. 
 
 Her face was vacant now ; she sank into a chair and 
 covered it with her hands. She had been but a while 
 ago in the position of one who, struggling from the depths 
 of a profound abyss, finds herself at the top of the preci- 
 pice, wholly oblivious that hands are torn and limbs 
 weary, conscious only that the foothold has been reached 
 at last ! And now, just at the supreme moment of tri- 
 umph, to sink down, down again to the abysmal depths 
 of the past ! 
 
 Constance's voice ! Oh, it was ludicrous ! She began 
 to laugh queerly, but put her hand in affright to her 
 mouth at the strange sound. A little thing like that ! 
 Only Constance's voice ! Yet powerful enough to bring 
 back to him, with overwhelming force, the love, the de- 
 spair, which she, Eleanor, had thought long since buried ! 
 He had confessed as much to her himself the evening 
 after their visit to Pompeii. He had said: "There are 
 dreams of youth which lie buried under the cold lava of 
 a great upheaval. It is better to travel far from such 
 dead, since they cannot be restored to life ! If they rise 
 again, they will be but as the ghosts of dead desires. I 
 prefer the warm clasp of a human hand, Eleanor, to the 
 icy touch of any ghost." 
 
 It had been a confession and an admission which she 
 had quickly interpreted. Had he deceived only her ? 
 Had he played upon her nostalgia only to bring himself 
 near again to his lost idol ? Or had he also been the 
 victim of distance and hope ? Was it love or onlv 
 
181 
 
 memory that had throttled him again, and obliterated all 
 else? 
 
 A melancholy bitterness slowly overspread her. She 
 seemed to stand off and regard Eleanor Kenyon as a 
 shivering, impotent object, and her lips almost mur- 
 mured, " Poor wretch !" Self-pity is the weakness of des- 
 peration. Now, beside her old jealousy of Constance, 
 there rose the miserable picture of the hungry woman 
 who had had the morsel dashed from her hand just as it 
 had been raised to her lips. And presently there was 
 added to this another maddening feeling. Under her 
 corsage a woman may carry a brutal wound with smiling 
 nonchalance ; but let a telltale scratch show itself upon 
 her face, and the* vulnerable spot has been found. In 
 Paris, an alien among aliens, her sorrow had been her 
 own. Here, among her people, it would resolve itself 
 into a vulgar scandal commodity. It is easier for a wom- 
 an to own to material poverty than to a hungry heart. 
 Woman's love must be sought, never go begging ; it must 
 wait until called for, else it might find itself, like Eleanor's, 
 wandering in the night. The convention, as are most such 
 conventions, is one of chivalric protection for the sex, and 
 she who cannot abide by it must expect to suffer either 
 pity or ridicule. Pity is pride's rack, ridicule its guillo- 
 tine. " I hate him !" she said, in the very madness of 
 love. 
 
 During the hours which passed while ^she sat there 
 motionless she endured all the agonies of social dam- 
 nation, and when she finally raised her head her sallow, 
 haggard face and dark-ringed eyes were eloquent testi- 
 mony of her torment. 
 
 Her gaze fell upon the bridal-gown enveloping her 
 
182 
 
 like a satire. " I am Mrs. Haversham," she thought, with 
 a distorted smile, and as the grizzly vision arose before 
 her, she shuddered and hid her face. " I am afraid of 
 her," she murmured ; " I always was afraid of that 
 woman. Oh, take her away, take her away I don't 
 want to be like her !" She suddenly became conscious 
 that she was talking aloud. She looked about her in 
 horror. " I am crazy," she thought, wildly "I am 
 quite mad. Oh, papa " She sat stunned, pallid under 
 the awful fear of hereditary want of mental fortitude. 
 
 " No," she said, finally, crushing her hands heavily 
 upon her knees. " Let him go mad ! One of us is 
 enough. I shall not go mad. But I have had enough 
 of this man's individuality too muc^. I shall not sub- 
 mit to it. I shall give him two days to return. Then 
 I will see if he can suffer." She rose with menacing 
 dignity, as though confronting an adversary. As she 
 moved across the room the violets dropped from her 
 hair like withered hopes. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE tension of Eleanor's faculties was drawn so tight 
 that the following hours passed with diabolically creep- 
 ing slowness. Her strained senses, fastened upon one 
 ultimate moment, suffered the hideous torture of the 
 screw, of which her changed aspect gave dumb evidence. 
 
 " Mr. Kenyon was suddenly called away," she said, in 
 even, cold precision to the two wondering maids the 
 next morning. li , I am not feeling well. I wish to see 
 nobody. I am out to whoever calls even to my sisters. 
 You will simply say to all inquirers that I am not in, 
 and that Mr. Kenyon is away. Let no one come further 
 than the door." 
 
 She was aware of her impotence to hide her misery 
 feigning would prove so evidently an artificiality with 
 Eleanor Kenyon that her voice behind the mask would 
 cry out the deception. The heart has its seasons with 
 all nature, and, without art, it cannot bear June berries 
 in December. She was maintaining her self-mastery by 
 an unfamiliar dominance of will, but the woman became 
 rigid in her restraint and silence. 
 
 The cards of many old intimates were handed to her 
 during the next two days; their owners were turned 
 away with the glib excuse. She looked at the bits of 
 card-board without a glimmer of comprehension. 
 
 " Mademoiselle, your sister said they would expect 
 you to-night, as Mees Nan cannot be left," repeated Marie, 
 
184 
 
 in the afternoon of the first day, when Constance, after 
 waiting all morning for their advent, had sent Grace with 
 the message. " She was sorry not to find you," continued 
 the girl, curiously, throwing out the remark as a projec- 
 tile against an iron wall. 
 
 " Very well," was the low comment, and the baffled 
 maid left the room. 
 
 She would go into the dining-room at meal-time and 
 sit staring at her plate or at the opposite wall, as 
 though she had lost all knowledge why she sat there. 
 But always, by the same unaccountable dominance of 
 will, she would force a few mouthfuls to pass her pale, 
 dry lips. Her cheeks and eyes already looked sunken 
 a great gnawing void soon sucks beauty out of sight. 
 
 On the morning of the second day Constance, in 
 some anxiety, left Nan with Grace, and went herself to 
 investigate Eleanor's tardiness. 
 
 "Mrs. Kenyon is out," repeated Marie, like a well- 
 drilled marionette. 
 
 "Do you know whether she will be at home this 
 evening ?" 
 
 " I cannot say ; perhaps not." 
 
 " Is Mr. Kenyon home ?" 
 
 " No, Miss Herriott ; every one is out." 
 
 Constance looked at the cool, non-committal young 
 face with a slightly annoyed gaze. Not only the maid's 
 tone but her position in the doorway seemed to bar all 
 further inquiry or entrance. A flush of resentful dignity 
 rose to Constance's cheek as she turned away. She had 
 descended only the first step, however, when she came 
 hastily back, arresting the maid just as she was closing 
 the door. 
 
185 
 
 " Tell Mrs. Kenyon that I am waiting for her, please," 
 she said, and, with a kindly nod, she went down the 
 steps. 
 
 The day dragged on sluggishly. As evening ap- 
 proached a slow, feverish paralysis seemed to encroach 
 upon Eleanor's members. She was nearing the catas- 
 trophic moment of decision. She went into the draw- 
 ing-room after the farce of dining, and took up a book 
 as another act of the farce. An hour or two slipped 
 away without a sound or movement from the lonely oc- 
 cupant of the room ; not even the turning of a page 
 deceived eye or ear as to her real employment the de- 
 ception had stopped with the picking up of the book. 
 
 At about half -past eight, in the deep quiet of the 
 night, she heard a man's firm foot - fall mounting the 
 outer steps. Immediately after the ringing of the b511 
 pealed gently through the silent house. She felt herself 
 turn icy. 
 
 She heard the sound of muffled voices, an altercation, 
 an exclamation, a footstep ; the heavy portiere was 
 pulled aside, and a keen, kindly face looked toward her 
 from the threshold. 
 
 " Geoffrey !" she almost shrieked, the revulsion of an- 
 ticipation throwing off all disguise. She swayed where 
 she stood with outstretched hands. 
 
 He reached her side on the instant, and his firm, close 
 hand-clasp, his silent greeting, the intensity of his gaze 
 as it rested upon her changed face, brought her to her- 
 self at once. 
 
 " I saw your shadow upon the blind as I stood on 
 the topmost step," he was saying, in quiet apology, 
 " and I insisted upon the maid's letting me see you for 
 
an instant. I thought you wouldn't rnind me, even if 
 you have ' a headache.' " 
 
 11 Oh, I am glad you have come at last," she began, 
 in a high - strung key, as he seated himself near her. 
 " You always did deliberate till the clock struck the 
 hour, and then, pouff ! it was done. How do you like 
 my drawing-room ? Pretty, isn't it ? That punch-bowl 
 you sent is exquisite we'll drink your health every time 
 it is filled. I hope the wish won't conjure the contrary, 
 as some dyspeptic old pessimists want us to believe. 
 There's always a reverse side to every argument, and we 
 must listen to the testimony of those whose dinners 
 not only tasted good but agreed with them, mustn't we, 
 Geoffrey ?" 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Kenyon, what are you trying to say ?" 
 Geoffrey asked, sharply. 
 
 Eleanor drew in a swift breath at the sound of his 
 compassionate tone. Then she began to laugh hysteri- 
 cally. " My dear Mr. Brunton, what are you trying to 
 say?" she mimicked, "Have you lost your memory? 
 I am still Eleanor crazy, madcap Eleanor ! who wanted 
 to sell her fortune for a mess of pottage on the day 
 she came into it. Don't you remember me now ? And 
 can't you understand what I meant to say ? I always 
 wrote gibberish on the lines and some invisible sense 
 between them cap and bells on top, a polemic under- 
 neath. Make the bells tinkle, and Poor old Punch- 
 inello ! I mean " 
 
 "That will do, Eleanor! Let us talk rationally. 
 Where is Kenyon ?" 
 
 She rallied on the instant. " Is that all you have to 
 ask me, after a year and a half's absence ?" she de- 
 
187 
 
 manded, with a forced laugh, striving to drown his mat- 
 ter-of-fact question in another flood of words. " Have 
 you grown so old that you can take stock only in the 
 present ? You can't be more than forty one or two at 
 the utmost, Geoffrey ! You have just reached the pla- 
 teau; you can saunter now; before that one climbs. Only 
 after fifty one begins to run down. Oh, I forgot," she 
 broke off, catching the annoyed look upon his face, 
 "you asked me where Kenyon is. Why, he he " 
 She sat staring at him with eyes of helplessness. Her 
 power of artifice had run its course. Not the glimmer 
 of a parrying idea came to her relief. 
 
 She strove to say something, her lips moving spas- 
 modically, but emitting no sound, her hands fluttering 
 over her lap. Her agonized endeavor, the imprint of 
 some unexplained torment in her whole aspect and bear- 
 ing, filled Brunton with compassion. 
 
 " Don't, my dear, don't !" he implored, leaning for- 
 ward and taking her feeble hands in his. " Wait !" 
 
 " Geoffrey," she moaned " oh, Geoffrey, he he 
 has " She began to sob in deep, painful gusts, like a 
 storm long restrained that can only spend itself in heavy 
 convulsions. 
 
 After a little she drew away from him, her wretched 
 eyes regarding him wearily. " Forgive me," she en- 
 treated, in humble hopelessness, " but I did not want 
 any one to know not even the girls. But you were so 
 kind, Geoffrey, and sometimes kindness is so painful, 
 and" 
 
 " You are not well ; that is what upset you," he said, 
 as if humoring a sick child. " But isn't there something 
 your brother Geoffrey can do for you ?" 
 
188 
 
 " Nothing," she said, with sudden quiet. " I can trust 
 you to let what has just passed go -as though it had 
 never been. You know, through accident, the truth 
 that I am wretched ! But you are the only one who 
 does know. Hush ! I cannot have it discussed." 
 
 He studied her face sharply, and understood that his 
 investigation was arrested. " Then there is only one 
 thing to do," he said, cheerily. " I wonder you did not 
 think of it before." 
 
 Her eyes mutely begged him to proceed. 
 
 " Why, Constance, to be sure, little girl. What else ?" 
 
 She put up a passionate, repellent hand and cowered 
 down in her chair. " No, no ! not Constance now," she 
 uttered. " It carft be Constance now." 
 
 " It must always be Constance," he asserted, with in- 
 sistence. "There is no circumstance sad or miserable 
 enough to call on Constance vainly. To stand aloof from 
 your sister now would be to asperse your memory with 
 the most profligate ingratitude. Have you forgotten 
 everything, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Oh, Geoffrey," she sobbed, " I am so so ashamed. 
 I" 
 
 " Ashamed ? Before Constance ? Eleanor !" 
 
 The whole volume of the man's secret, unswerving 
 love and trust spoke in the exclamation. It sank like a 
 plummet into Eleanor's memory. She understood. She 
 arose and held out her hands. " Take me to her, Geof- 
 frey," she said, simply. 
 
 Constance was sitting alone in the library. Her quiet 
 hand shaded her eyes while she read. She heard the 
 ringing of the bell with listless speculation. 
 
189 
 
 A few moments later the door softly opened and the 
 figure of a woman came silently in. Her white face, 
 rising from the dark fur of her cloak, seemed to emerge 
 from spirit-land. She advanced a step, and then stood 
 quite still. 
 
 " Constance," she whispered, " I needed a mother, so 
 I have come to you." 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 CONSTANCE'S motherly arms went quickly about Elea- 
 nor. " That is right, child," said the tender voice. 
 " That is what mothers want." 
 
 She took the heavy cloak from her sister's shoulders 
 and unpinned the hat. Her strong hand smoothed the 
 pretty hair with loving touch while she did so. Pres- 
 ently she had drawn Eleanor down upon the divan into 
 a nest of cushions, and, seating herself beside her, drew 
 off her gloves, and began softly rubbing the chilled 
 hands. 
 
 The house was still. For several minutes Constance's 
 strong, reliable figure rose like a supporting oak beside 
 the drooping form of the other ; then, abruptly, Eleanor 
 drew herself up, and the two women regarded each 
 other silently. So different outwardly, an inward re- 
 semblance radiated from them, and proclaimed them for 
 that one moment close almost as twins. The pale braids, 
 olive skin, and noble proportions of the older next the 
 glinting hair, white face, and slender figure of the 
 younger were mere accidents of form and color, which 
 faded into immateriality at this swift recognition of two 
 souls. But reticence soon slipped unseen, like a shadow, 
 upon Eleanor, and Constance looked into a pair of eyes 
 too deep and sad for the young face. 
 
 " He has left me, Constance !" she said, breathlessly. 
 " He left me on the day of our home-coming." Con- 
 
191 
 
 stance did not answer ; her firm, quiet hand pressed more 
 tenderly the one which lay beneath hers. " It was the 
 incident of the Louvre repeated," Eleanor continued, mo- 
 notonously. " Without warning, without a word, he was 
 gone. I have not seen or heard from him since." 
 
 " Was there any visible impulse ?" asked Constance, 
 with frowning forehead but gentle voice. 
 
 "None but that of his ungovernable mood." The 
 hand upon Constance's rested lightly, as though waiting 
 for her to proceed. After a pause the answer came 
 complete: "Yes, Constance. It was you! He heard 
 your voice that afternoon in the house, you know." 
 
 A flood of color rushed over Constance's face and 
 neck. Her face contracted with pain. Bat her eyes 
 did not flinch in their gaze upon the cold, white face 
 before her. 
 
 " And that was all ?" she asked. 
 
 " All." 
 
 " Are you quite sure ?" 
 
 " Quite." 
 
 There was another pause. Then Constance spoke. 
 " Eleanor dear, he will return. It was not love ; it was 
 memory. You must know this yourself. For now he 
 loves you ! must love you, Eleanor." 
 
 Her passionless voice spoke the words as an ultima- 
 tum ; they bore no trace of self, no spirit of renuncia- 
 tion. She stated an incontrovertible, impersonal fact, as 
 one would say, " The sun shines." 
 
 " Remember," she went on, " your husband had not 
 seen me since the day when we parted in silence and bit- 
 terness. Linked with that parting were unspoken words 
 of violent emotions. It was the mere memory of these 
 
192 
 
 old emotions; the sound of my voice recalled them. 
 Without premonition it threw him again into this state. 
 It was not love, dear, not despair. Don't fear it. He 
 is an honorable man. The moment he became your hus- 
 band he buried me from sight. In all these long months 
 a living love, thus buried, must die. It does die, Elea- 
 nor. Inanition kills. Why, search your own conscience 
 and tell me truly. Don't you know, as only the woman 
 herself can know, by signs so delicate that only the one 
 who loves can interpret or even perceive don't you 
 know that your husband loves you ?" 
 
 The earnest voice ceased. For a long time the sisters 
 sat so still that the sound of the gas buzzing in the jets 
 was distinctly audible. And then Eleanor's hand moved 
 from under Constance's, and was laid as if in protection 
 upon it. 
 
 " Angel," she said, in a strange tone, " your words 
 recall a hope which for these two dark days has lain 
 dead. Now, since I am with you, I think no, I know 
 that he not only cared for me before we came home, but 
 was beginning to want my love ! Oh, my dear, my dear, 
 which is the reality which will prove the stronger 
 the memory or the love ?" 
 
 " You know what I have said. Now you must answer 
 for yourself." 
 
 " But it is sometimes hard to separate desire from 
 hope," she replied. " Sometimes, looking ahead, long- 
 ing cries, 'It is so,' while reason corrects, in undertone, 
 ' Would it were so.' I do not stop to listen to reason. 
 You do. Shall I tell you of the hope you have recalled 
 all at once ?" 
 
 " Do, my darling." 
 
193 
 
 " You remember I wrote you how he returned to me 
 in Paris ? Before that we had seemingly grown into 
 congenial companions a relationship for which he was 
 thankful, and which he had no desire to break. After 
 his absence he had been on a wild tramp through a 
 corner of Switzerland he came back completely ex- 
 hausted in mind and spirit. He came upon me in my 
 peaceful mood and I did not upbraid him. That was 
 my salvation, Constance ! I seemed to promise him 
 rest. He turned to me eagerly, as a tired head yearns 
 for a pillow. I let him woo me. I let him take my 
 hand I did not put mine out to draw him. And yet, 
 Constance, I, who received it all with such calm, bore un- 
 derneath the same old noontide passion. It was a seem- 
 ing, a manner, a trick which Griff had taught me. I let 
 him woo me. He never left me but to return with some 
 token to show that only materially he had been separated 
 from me. He coaxed me with largesse to my better vani- 
 ties ; he pursued the game with the eager delight of a dis- 
 coverer. I took it all with gentleness. He thought me 
 indulgent. He never knew that the growing light within 
 him was with me an old, finished story. For I said to my- 
 self, ' A woman must hold her love so high that a man 
 must strain to reach it, or it may be held, like roses in 
 June, sweet, perhaps, but a cheap thing to be had for 
 the gathering.' He never knew I loved him, Constance." 
 
 The last words were long, with lingering hopelessness. 
 
 " Why, not at last, Eleanor 3" 
 
 " I was waiting !" 
 
 " Waiting, child ? For what ?" She spoke in low, un- 
 expected intensity. " It is never too early to speak words 
 of love. We arc all too avaricious with tenderness. We 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 hoard and hoard it as a miser his treasure, and say to 
 ourselves, * Some day I will show it all ; some day I will 
 overwhelm him with my store.' But too often the day 
 comes too late, when either the lips that wish to speak or 
 the ears that long to hear have passed beyond human 
 power. Love is the oil, Eleanor, that keeps the weary 
 world turning without creaking. Why did you wait?" 
 
 She felt the hand upon hers suddenly raised. Eleanor 
 had slipped to her knees before her with her old, impetu- 
 ous abandon. She rested her arms upon Constance's 
 knees and raised her face. The gaslight seemed to gain 
 a softened lustre as it fell upon her uplifted countenance, 
 and Constance caught her breath. 
 
 "I cannot tell you now," came the hushed words. 
 " Some day, perhaps, you will know." 
 
 Constance's heart gave a curious leap, but she dared 
 intrude no further into what was, perhaps, a shrine. They 
 sat looking into the future without speaking. 
 
 After a little Constance put her arm around the kneel- 
 ing figure and they both arose. 
 
 " You are going to stay with me now," she said, with- 
 out question. 
 
 "To-night," replied Eleanor, quietly. "Geoffrey did 
 not wait." 
 
 Geoffrey " 
 
 " He brought me here." 
 
 " That was like him. He always he generally knows 
 what is best. Let us go to bed, dear." She picked up 
 her hat and wrap, but Eleanor drew them gently from 
 her. " You have been doing for me long enough," she 
 said. Constance turned off the gas. With their arms 
 about each other they went up the broad stairs. 
 
195 
 
 They stepped softly from the room where Grace and 
 Marjorie lay sleeping, and came into Nan's shadowy 
 room. Eleanor buried her face in the pillow beside the 
 ethereal little face. When she raised her head the tears 
 stood thick in her eyes. 
 
 " Hush ! I know, 1 ' whispered Constance. " She is 
 slipping from me." 
 
 Eleanor buttoned the collar of the little night-robe 
 which had become unfastened, and they went out. 
 
 They moved on to Eleanor's old room. Nothing had 
 been altered here. Even the old-fashioned white rabbit 
 pin- cushion, with the name "Eleanor" picked out in 
 black pins by Nan's fingers, looked at her with pink eyes 
 of recognition. Yet the room showed signs of occu- 
 pancy. 
 
 " Grace sometimes sleeps in here," Constance ex- 
 plained, as she drew down the blinds ; " but you will find 
 everything as it was. You know Nan would be discom- 
 forted if she could not put her hands on things just 
 where she expected to find them. Let me brush your 
 hair for you, Eleanor, will you ? It will rest you." Her 
 hands ached to do something for the child who had re- 
 turned to her in her need. 
 
 " No, no," protested Eleanor, shaking her head with a 
 tremulous smile, as she looked into her sister's face. " I 
 have grown so accustomed to taking care of myself. But 
 just for a change, Constance, let me brush your hair for 
 you, will you ? It will rest you." 
 
 A glimmer of her girlish archness stole through her 
 womanly tone as she drew Constance down into a low 
 chair. "Just for a change," she whispered, drawing out 
 the pins. 
 
196 
 
 Constance's figure suddenly relaxed; she closed her 
 eyes. She was unused to being cared for. " Eleanor, 
 you seem" so much older than You make me feel child- 
 ish," she laughed, through apologetic tears. 
 
 Eleanor did not reply. She was busily unplaiting the 
 beautiful hair. Presently she drew back, as it fell in 
 shimmering splendor about Constance's form, reaching, 
 as she sat, almost to the floor. 
 
 " Oh," she cried, softly, " what a glory ! How you are 
 * crowned,' Constance !" 
 
 " The crown is a great nuisance," returned Constance, 
 lightly, moved by the lingering touch upon her hair. As 
 the long braid fell from Eleanor's manipulation, Con- 
 stance put up her hands, drew her sister's arms about her 
 neck, and, leaning her head back upon Eleanor's breast, 
 raised her eyes to the wistful face bending above her. 
 
 "You are going to be a great comfort to me," she said, 
 softly. *' You make me think of some one who used to 
 love to smooth my hair. You have our mother's hands, 
 Eleanor." 
 
 Eleanor did not answer. But before Constance left 
 her, after tucking her in, Eleanor was startled to find her 
 kneeling at her bedside. 
 
 " Eleanor," she said, in painful intensity, " I want your 
 forgiveness. I have often feared that in my endeavor to 
 save you and and all the children I have feared when 
 that morning came to us three to-you, Hall, and me I 
 wrecked your life for you. It was done, dear, in a moral 
 rigor which held no tenderness. I had grown despotic 
 and self-sure. But I am beginning to doubt my every 
 action. Did I provide nothing but unhappiness for you, 
 child?" 
 
197 
 
 Eleanor was sitting up in bed ; her two hands closely 
 framed the sad, beseeching face on a level with her own. 
 Her eyes looked clearly, without restraint, into Con- 
 stance's. 
 
 " Constance," she returned, steadily, " you must never 
 torture yourself with such an accusation. When you 
 gave me 'Hall for a husband, you unconsciously gave me 
 the only happiness I craved ! It was not a perfect hap- 
 piness, because that lay out of your power, and, perhaps, 
 out of your thought. But to one as selfish as I, posses- 
 sion is always the great nine points. When he became 
 mine I ceased to hate you ! Was that nothing ? You 
 made me good again, because you gave me what I want- 
 ed. That appeals to what Eleanor Herriott always was, 
 and what Eleanor Kenyon still is, perhaps. For I am a 
 woman with more than my share of woman's weaknesses ; 
 there is nothing noble about me. If I have suffered, if I 
 shall suffer, it will never be what I should have suffered 
 if Hall, with all his faults, were nothing to me. Now you 
 know me as I know myself. Now you know that no 
 matter what may happen, no matter what I may do, out of 
 my selfishness I bless you for what you have given me." 
 
 Yet for many hours Constance sat in her darkened 
 room reviewing the past with doubting bitterness, as over 
 and over in the past eighteen months she had arraigned 
 herself. 
 
 " I did it for the best," was the repeated supplication 
 her heart made, as if in justification to some invisible, 
 condemning judge. And out of the shadows came fe- 
 vered scenes : the night of Kenyon's avowal of love 
 to her, her heart giving no leap at the reminiscence, only 
 an unresponsive stupor, like that which attends a strong 
 
198 
 
 lion lying strangled in death ; the night of the Ferris 
 dinner, when shame and fear had given her heart but one 
 vision, had made her a monomaniac with one omnipo- 
 tent necessity ; the marriage of the two at Sausalito, as 
 bizarre and seemingly unreal as an impressionist's frenzy. 
 Why had such strange, unconventional things happened 
 to them? They were quiet, ordinary, home-loving peo- 
 ple. But the kaleidoscopic memories reintruded upon 
 her questionings. Eleanor's first letter with its unutter- 
 able, unlooked-for confessions, and, after that, the months 
 during which she, Constance, had hoped and doubted 
 and hoped again for the welfare of her wandering child. 
 Always she called up Kenyon's image, studying his feat- 
 ures, gauging his possibilities, delving into her minutest 
 reminiscences of him the wilful, passionate, defiant face, 
 true as steel, open as sunlight, with its curious contradic- 
 tions of weakness and strength. " His faults are weak- 
 nesses, not vices," Eleanor had written, in love ; but when 
 weakness worked viciously, to one of Constance Herri- 
 ott's controlled instincts, such weakness moral weak- 
 ness was a vice. 
 
 " These flights of his must be stopped," she thought, 
 with severe eyes and deliberate mouth. " They must end 
 right here. She shall not submit to it. If it is physical, 
 there are cures ; if moral, there are other means of resti- 
 tution. He is strong in effort ; he can conquer what he 
 desires, if it rests only with himself. He is stern in 
 honor ; there is not a trace of depravity in him. When 
 he comes back your child shall have a life like other 
 loved women." 
 
 In the dark she gave her promise to the ever invisible, 
 ever attendant judge who ruled her life. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 WHEN Constance opened her door the next morning 
 and was passing on to Eleanor's room, she was arrested 
 by the chamber-maid, who told her that Mrs. Kenyon 
 had asked her to tell Miss Herriott that it had been neces- 
 sary for her to return to her house in order to arrange 
 some affairs which needed her attention. 
 
 "Did she say nothing more?" questioned Constance, 
 slightly startled. 
 
 " Nothing more," replied the girl ; and Constance went 
 on, explaining to herself that hope had probably flickered 
 a little light before her, and led her, like a kindly demon, 
 away from her passive inactivity. 
 
 "It is maddening for her to wait," she thought. " It 
 is natural for her to want to stay where he left her. Per- 
 haps she will not come back. If not, I will take Nan 
 down and sit with her this afternoon. Although " 
 The rich color mounted to her face at the arresting 
 thought of her possible undesirability. 
 
 The morning was almost spent when a messenger 
 brought her a key and the following communication : 
 
 DEAR CONSTANCE, I have gone to him. I have dis- 
 missed the servants and locked the house. Will you look 
 in at it once in a while till our return? Am quite safe. 
 Forgive me and again again pray for me. 
 
 ELEANOR. 
 
200 
 
 That was all. No word as to her destination, no ex- 
 planation of her knowledge of his whereabouts. She had 
 slipped from Constance's hands as from a leash, and she 
 could not turn to search for her. " It is the unexpected 
 that always happens with Eleanor," she thought, with 
 a heavy sigh of resignation. " She will write to me when 
 she gets to him. I shall have to let them go." 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Kenyon were unexpectedly called away 
 the day after their home-coming," she informed the many 
 inquirers. " But they will return immediately after the 
 affair is arranged." 
 
 Her explanation bore two results : it stopped all out- 
 side speculation, and succeeded in giving her own con- 
 science some assurance of their well-being. 
 
 " As long as she is with him," said Geoffrey, " there is 
 no need to worry." Constance could not explain to him 
 that his innocent view of the situation gave her small 
 comfort. 
 
 A week slipped away with no further news, and had it 
 not been for Nan's failing strength, the silence would 
 have forced her to some definite action. As it was, the 
 child's grave condition claimed her entire attention and 
 thought. 
 
 She seldom left her, although Grace, with her calm 
 womanliness, very much like Constance's own, was al- 
 ways ready to take her place. Nan, who was usually 
 fretful when Constance left the room, made no complaint 
 when these necessary substitutions were made. 
 
 " Grace isn't yow, Constance," said her little lover, loy- 
 ally ; " but she is like you. And then it is always so 
 lovely when you come home again." 
 
 And Constance, knowing that the child spoke from 
 
201 
 
 her heart, left her thus in Grace's arms one day, slipped 
 quietly out, and betook herself to Brunton's office. The 
 knowledge that she herself was inadequate to advance a 
 step toward Eleanor had given her the sudden impetus 
 for this move. She could count the occasions on which 
 she had entered her friend's business domain. Only an 
 urgent case, which could not be satisfactorily arranged at 
 home, had ever brought her here. There was a certain deli- 
 cacy about this constraint which she could have scarcely 
 explained. No outward sign from him, but a certain in- 
 tuitiveness made clear to her that her coming into his 
 unadorned law-office caused him more disturbance than 
 she cared to inflict. 
 
 As she entered now he was standing in the centre of 
 the large outer room, in earnest conversation with two 
 men. He bowed courteously to her, and when the men 
 had departed came over to her side. 
 
 " I don't wish to keep you many minutes, Geoffrey," 
 she said, putting her hand into his extended one. " My 
 business is of an entirely personal nature. I did'not want 
 to speak of it at home, and I thought you would pardon 
 the intrusion." 
 
 " Come in here," he said, opening the door of his sanc- 
 tum. "Now we can talk quite unreservedly and lei- 
 surely. How is our Nan ?" 
 
 " The days are passing. But I no, I won't sit down 
 I have come to speak about Eleanor." 
 
 He nodded gravely, waiting for her to speak before 
 committing himself. 
 
 "You know at least, did she tell you that night 
 that she that she did not know where Hall had 
 gone ?" 
 
202 
 
 No." 
 
 " Well, such was the case ; she had heard nothing 
 from him. There had been no misunderstanding, you 
 know, Geoffrey, but he left her the day of their return 
 without premonition either to himself or to her. The 
 cause, however, was perfectly clear to her and to me. 
 You saw the note she sent me the day after you 
 brought her to me. It is now almost two weeks since 
 then, and I have heard nothing more. This silence 
 alarms me. I don't know what to think. I don't know 
 whether he sent for her, or whether she is searching for 
 him, or has reached him, or anything. It is entirely 
 upon my own responsibility that I am confiding in yon, 
 Geoffrey. Do you understand ?" 
 
 " Entirely. And you have done nothing as yet to lo- 
 cate them ?" 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " You want me to lend a hand ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Without Eleanor's ever knowing ?" 
 
 "Yes. She would never forgive me if she knew. 
 But we I dare not let her pass from me like this. It 
 would be criminal." 
 
 " Yes. Let me manage it. The courts are beginning 
 to close, and " 
 
 "Geoffrey, I did not mean that you should go. I 
 thought only that you would put it in efficient hands, 
 with whom you could be in constant communication, 
 and so could let me know whatever there is to know. I 
 beg you, Geoffrey, not to think me quite so inconsiderate 
 and tactless." 
 
 " A man may take a vacation once in a while, I trust. 
 
203 
 
 But I'll sec only to the laying of the wires. You will 
 want them all underground, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Yes, for many reasons. I will send you Griff's ad- 
 dress his friend, you know, who is with Severn. He 
 may, perhaps, help you. You see, Geoffrey, I am as un- 
 hesitating in asking great things of you as in asking 
 trivialities." His brow contracted a word of thanks 
 from her always displeased him a'nd she hurriedly con- 
 tinued : " Let no money or pains be spared. I shall be 
 glad to spend my fortune in bringing them home again 
 together." 
 
 " Of course you will, and spend yourself, too, for that 
 matter. Well, it is my affair now, and, everybody else 
 aside, Constance, I should hate to hear that any harm 
 had come to Kenyon. I like the fellow. We'll start in 
 at once, but we don't want to do anything precipitate. 
 Telephone me Griff's address when you get home." 
 
 "Ah, that is what I want action. Good-bye, then." 
 She liked action, and she went immediately, leaving in 
 the cold office a memory which beautified the spot for 
 many hours to Geoffrey Brunton. 
 
 But while she lightened one care, another moved on 
 with swift, unswerving pace. 
 
 A day or two later Grace sat singing a tender ballad 
 to Nan. The warm stillness of the May morning without 
 had hushed the air within. All through the night she 
 and Constance had watched, fearing that the frail cord 
 would be snapped without their knowing. Now Con- 
 stance sat near, in the heavy silence of impotent grief. 
 A broad stream of sunlight bathed Grace and the child 
 in a soft radiance, which swung in halos about their 
 heads. The singing died into profound silence. They 
 
204 
 
 might have been transfixed by a spell, they were so 
 still. 
 
 "And now, Grace," faltered the small voice, "if you 
 don't mind, I should like to go to Constance." 
 
 During the moment in which the sisters changed places 
 Nan lay with her eyes closed and a smile flickering over 
 her pale little mouth. When the familiar arms closed 
 about her she stretched out a wavering hand. 
 
 " Constance," she whispered, fearfully, " I cannot find 
 you." 
 
 " I am here, my Nan, close beside you," said the voice 
 of tenderness, broken with anguish and tears. 
 
 " You are always here Constance aren't you al- 
 ways here you won't ever leave me will you, Con- 
 stance ?" 
 
 " Oh, my bird !" 
 
 At the low cry of sorrow the small, cold hand sought 
 her cheek, and, as out of a dream, came the indistinct 
 murmur of consolation : 
 
 " Never never mind Constance." 
 
 And with the beloved name upon her lips, little Nan 
 passed on in safety. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 TOWARD six o'clock in the evening of an unseason- 
 ably gloomy day in May, the sun, as if repenting for its 
 erstwhile dulness, darted over San Francisco a rosy light, 
 which, through the mist, gave to the atmosphere a mys- 
 terious charm. It was like that which lies in the un- 
 fathomable gaze of a child just awakened from a hazy 
 dream. It lent- a sudden spring-time vim to the depart- 
 ing day ; and the shrill call of newsboys, the ringing of 
 car-bells, the brisk step and alert eyes of pedestrians 
 seemed to have caught the whiff like a cordial. 
 
 It was the hour when women, still busy with belated 
 and vexatious shopping, hurry along the streets with an 
 air of nervous purpose ; when men stroll toward the car 
 with a reminiscent smile for the appetizer just taken, 
 and a genial looking forward to the gratification of the 
 appetite thus aroused; when here and there a lighted 
 street-lamp puts a premature seal on the day ; it was the 
 hour of finishing the vanishing point of traffic. 
 
 Brunton emerged from his barber-shop, and turned 
 down Kearney Street with a leisurely pleasure in the 
 warm underglow of the vapory evening air. He went 
 into his favorite shop and selected a fragrant sprig of 
 jasmine with his usual near-sighted care. As he walked 
 down the street the soft perfume caressed his nostrils 
 with wonted delicacy, and he felt calm and benignant 
 toward the world, himself included. He stopped for a 
 
206 
 
 moment to examine the photograph of the coming mu- 
 sical celebrity gravely regarding him from Sherman & 
 Clay's window, sauntered on with an indulgent nod now 
 and then to passing acquaintances, whom he seldom rec- 
 ognized in the evening light, and crossed over to his own 
 particular little newsboy flitting before the Chronicle 
 building with his armful of evening papers. He was 
 at once besieged by an army of importunate venders 
 with the shrill cry of " Bulletin, sir ? Full account of 
 the railroad accident!" " Want a Report? Returns of 
 the Louisiana Lottery, and terrible murder by high-bind- 
 ers in Chinatown J" "Post? Lottery, great stage rob- 
 bery, and" 
 
 The eager little figures moved on and bestowed their 
 attention elsewhere as he turned to the dirty-faced little 
 urchin upon whom his favoring eye had, since a long 
 time, fallen with material benefit. 
 
 As he took hold of the extended paper, his hand fum- 
 bling in his pocket for the customary dime, through the 
 swaying, straggling crowd he noticed the figure of one 
 man in particular passing up the street. The sight 
 paralyzed all further movement. He stared after Ken- 
 yon's powerful form striding out of sight ! He contin- 
 ued to look utterly unconscious that the boy at his side 
 was awaiting the reappearance of his hand. 
 
 " Change ?" suggested the youngster, finally. 
 
 "Eh? Oh yes yes," he vaguely answered, looking 
 down at him, a line of perturbation showing at either 
 side his thin nose. " Here, Pretzel," he exclaimed, seiz- 
 ing the boy by the shoulder and using his nickname with 
 ludicrous gravity, " quick you see that tall man going 
 there ! He is out of sight he has on a black cape- 
 
207 
 
 overcoat soft hat very tall no mustache or beard. 
 Run after him ! follow him ! see where he turns in, 
 and come back to me as fast as you can make it !" 
 
 The boy was off. Brunton watched the little figure 
 darting off like an arrow with a dazed, uncomfortable 
 sensation. Five minutes later Pretzel was on his way 
 to him, his spindle-legs flying backward in alarming dis- 
 regard to their striking him in the upward stroke. He 
 reached Brunton, breathless and glowing. 
 
 " Jest caught de gent goin' in de rest'rant corner Bush 
 and Grant Avenoo he'd " 
 
 " All right, Pretzel. Here you are." He handed him 
 a half-dollar, the size of which made Pretzel's eyes emu- 
 lous, and walked off in the direction indicated. 
 
 He entered the handsome, well-lighted restaurant with 
 slow step and his usual air of indifference. He was before 
 the footlights now, and his gait gave no evidence of what 
 its nature had been in the wings. He nodded in cour- 
 teous perf unctoriness in answer to one or two salutations 
 as he passed down the long room, and paused with a 
 preoccupied air at one of the side-tables near the end. 
 Throwing his coat over a chair, his eye travelling lei- 
 surely down the vista of glittering glass and silver, he 
 gave an apparent start as he met the gaze of the man 
 at the table below his. He immediately picked up his 
 coat and moved to his side. 
 
 " Kenyon," he said, in a low voice, holding out his 
 hand. The other seized it, and for five or six seconds 
 the two clasped hands were shaken in the honest demon- 
 stration which Americans are not ashamed to show, and 
 which sends a glow of sympathy to the most callous 
 spectator. During this time Brunton's eye noted, with- 
 
208 
 
 out expression, the hair silvering at the temples, the 
 great gauntness of the hazel eyes, the stern leanness of 
 the stead} 7 jaw. The pallor of face and lip he passed 
 by it might have been the result of the moment's sen- 
 sation. They seated themselves, and after a moment 
 Brunton spoke. His voice was even lower and slower 
 than usual. 
 
 " Just get in ?" he asked, casually. 
 
 " An hour ago," replied Kenyon. He held the menu 
 card in a firm grip ; the long, dark intaglio on his finger 
 seemed to stand up and out as though the flesh had 
 shrunken from it. The words escaped him like a mis- 
 sile he could say no more ; he was suffering, for the 
 moment, a lingual atrophy painful to witness. The 
 waiter came along with his bird and salad just then, 
 and Brunton carelessly ordered the same. Neither spoke 
 again until the latter's wine was placed before him. 
 
 " You are not eating," he said, extending the bottle 
 towards his companion's glass. 
 
 Kenyon put out a restraining hand. " I do not drink," 
 he said, quietly. 
 
 A few minutes later, as Brunton was served, he asked, 
 with an assumption of ease and his entire attention di- 
 rected to the duck, " How is your wife ?" 
 
 It was only after a few seconds that, conscious of his 
 companion's taciturnity, he looked up. Kenyon's eyes 
 covered him with bewildering intensity. " Why do you 
 ask me that ?" he returned, almost without expression. 
 
 " Why," replied Brunton, sharply, " whom else should 
 I ask?" 
 
 " You can probably answer the question better than I." 
 
 "What!" 
 
209 
 
 " I have not seen my wife for almost three weeks. 
 She is not where I left her." 
 
 " I know that. Where is she?" 
 
 " Is she is she not with her sisters?" 
 
 " No ! Constance thinks she is with you !" 
 
 Kenyon's lips turned bloodless. He stared at Brunton 
 as though he could not comprehend. Then, with a hasty 
 movement, he started up. 
 
 " Your hat and coat," reminded Brunton's gentle voice, 
 as he handed him the articles. The next minute Ken- 
 yon had passed rapidly out. Brunton paused at the 
 desk, and then followed him closely. 
 
 He could discern the tall figure moving westward, but 
 it was several minutes before he overtook him. Kenyon 
 strode on like an automaton, his head raised, his eyes 
 fixed before him ; through the thin fog his face shone 
 livid. On and on they walked, the athlete beside him 
 seeming to Brunton to cover space without conscious- 
 ness. Whither they were headed he did not know nor 
 care. He had one thought, one object : not to let Ken- 
 yon pass again from his sight. A man in Kenyon's con- 
 dition is like a drunkard his muscles are as unfeeling 
 as his brain is befogged. Brunton, however, began to 
 feel winded and weary after an hour's steady pace. He 
 resolved to appeal to his silent companion to halt. 
 
 "Hall, where are you going?" he gasped, brushing 
 the fog from his mustache with his handkerchief. 
 
 Kenyon started and wheeled about. "Thank you," 
 he said, after a moment, in an odd, restrained tone, as if 
 recalled from some perilous verge. " I don't know 
 where I was going to the devil, probably." 
 
 " 1 protest," returned Brunton, with a forced laugh, 
 u 
 
210 
 
 " Pm going with you, but not, knowingly, there, my 
 friend. Nevertheless, we are on the road another step 
 will bring us into the cemetery. Turn around, Ken- 
 yon." 
 
 He grasped his arm firmly, and leaned breathlessly 
 against the high stone coping surrounding the silent city 
 of the dead. Kenyon stood still beside him. 
 
 " Take your hand off !" he commanded, finally. " It's 
 none of your concern where I go! By what right do 
 you interfere in my movements ?" 
 
 "It is a self-imposed right, but a right, all the 
 same," returned Brunton, with slow formality. " I re- 
 strain you in the quondam role of guardian of Eleanor 
 Herriott, which office I reassumed upon my own account 
 when Eleanor Kenyon was deserted by her natural 
 protector. As her guardian, therefore, and in the inter- 
 est of my ward, I must beg you now to tell me what you 
 intend doing." 
 
 " Doing ?" he repeated, violently. " What is there to 
 do but to find her ? For God's sake, Brunton, help me ! 
 I can't think." 
 
 " I don't think I care to do that," returned Brunton, 
 almost lightly, in contrast to the other's distracted tur- 
 bulence. 
 
 " You refuse ?" demanded Kenyon, vaguely. 
 
 " Certainly. Why should I help restore the girl to a 
 lifetime of misery ?" 
 
 " Ah." He raised his hat as though to cool his brow. 
 " Perhaps you are right," he said, dully. " You have no 
 ground for believing it might turn out otherwise ?" 
 
 " No," assented Geoffrey, stolidly, " I have none I I 
 saw your wife two days after you had left her. I know 
 
211 
 
 nothing about the circumstance of your leaving. But if 
 ever a miserable woman breathed on this earth, that wom- 
 an was your wife the night before she disappeared, to 
 go, as she wrote, to you. How do I know that she did 
 not go to you ? How do I know where you have left her 
 now, or what you have done to her?" 
 
 " Great God, Brunton, what sort of a brute do you 
 take me for ?" 
 
 " Either a scoundrel or a maniac." He faced him with 
 almost a smile which might have been insolent had not 
 the stern earnestness of his eye challenged his dum- 
 founded auditor menacingly. 
 
 " I am both," said Kenyon, finally, in a lifeless tone. 
 "But," he broke forth, through clinched teeth, "that 
 does not absolve me from my agony now." 
 
 " And quite right," retorted Brunton, suavely. " It is 
 gratifying to find that it is not only in fiction that the 
 criminal gets his deserts. But you must bear it. I sup- 
 pose you can, since it is only the reflection of what she 
 endured she, the delicately - bred woman; you, the 
 strong, hardened man !" 
 
 " That is quite enough," enjoined Kenyon, hoarsely. 
 The rays from the street-lamp glared down upon his 
 ashen face like a confessor drawing out the secrets of a 
 sick soul. " You don't know what you are saying." A 
 singular light illumined his handsome, haggard features 
 for a second. " My God !" Brunton heard him mutter, 
 as though suddenly confronted with the horror of the 
 situation. 
 
 " It strikes me," observed the lawyer, dryly, " that you 
 are on easy calling terms with the Great Unknown to- 
 night." 
 
212 
 
 Kenyon bent his head. " You would not understand," 
 he said, in a low voice. Then, " Come," he commanded, 
 roughly, " I need your help. I can't stand still and ex- 
 plain myself here." 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 "You have constituted yourself my judge," he began, 
 as they veered around and retraced their steps. " You 
 are evidently the fidus Achates of the family you de- 
 mand an explanation from me. I throw my confidence 
 upon your honor, Geoffrey Brunton it will find a solid 
 resting-place. 
 
 " I don't know what you know of me," he continued, 
 with simple directness. " To all intents my actions 
 have pointed to those of a brute, or maniac, as you 
 have said. How much I am accountable for them you 
 will judge according to your own standards. All that I 
 know is that my life has always been the tool of uncon- 
 trollable impulses and emotions, over which reason and 
 will held no restraint. Reason and will ! It seems the 
 veriest satire to claim such possessions in the face of the 
 brainless miseries which I have perpetrated and suf- 
 fered. Whether the characteristic is the result of pre- 
 natal influences or an acquired habit I cannot deter- 
 mine. 
 
 " I remember an incident of childhood which might 
 prove the latter supposition. I never knew my parents. 
 My childhood was passed with a maiden cousin ; I was 
 brought up on theories rules and isms and no favors 
 were my pasturage. She bridled a young colt like a 
 stately carriage - horse. I kicked at the traces I had 
 bumps and angles in unlooked-for places. But since, ac- 
 
214 
 
 cording to established authorities, they were accorded no 
 place in the perfected form, the straps were buckled 
 down over them as though they had no existence. One 
 day, in a freak of childish indignation, I opened the 
 door of a bird-cage and let her canary go. I was caught 
 in the act, and the anger upon her face let loose in me a 
 storm of accusation and invective. In the midst of it she 
 grasped me by the shoulder. ' Run,' she said, in a hor- 
 rified tone * run from yourself ; you will hurt somebody. 
 Run till you drop !' I took her at her literal word, and 
 the lesson it seemed a good one has clung to me as a 
 sort of preventive against active mischief. Once at col- 
 lege I made use of it with good results. Six or seven 
 years ago I suffered a severe, thoroughly unexpected re- 
 buff from a firm of publishers. It was my first experi- 
 ence in that line, and the disappointment disheartened 
 me almost to morbidity. I simply rushed out of the city ! 
 That was the first time I did it impulsively, almost with- 
 out taking thought ; it was what I wanted, what I need- 
 ed to do." He paused, drew breath, and plunged on 
 with his narrative. " Again, something over two years 
 ago, I asked a woman to marry me. My love was thrown 
 back to me as lightly as a ball is tossed to a pitcher or 
 so it seemed to me then. I left her like a madman. It 
 was a wild night, and I was in harmony with it. I spent 
 myself walking in the storm, perfectly conscious, yet 
 reckless reason was having an orgy with despair, and 
 despair, as usual with me, threw out reason. I hastened 
 where my feet led, with no concern. I had but one 
 thought, to end despair with myself. I was prevented 
 saved, you would probably call it. 
 
 " Well, you know I married Eleanor Ilerriott. In Icav- 
 
215- 
 
 ing San Francisco I left behind me the woman who was all 
 who was, at that time, at the root of all my bitterness. 
 One day, in the Louvre, I was suddenly confronted by a 
 strange image of her who, I thought, had become but 
 a bitter memory to me. The surroundings faded from 
 me the statues, the crowd, the girl at my side. Only 
 the memory of our last meeting remained, and from it 
 I fled blindly. Weeks after I returned cured. It 
 would have been impossible to return to my wife other- 
 wise. There is no need to tell you how she met me. 
 She understood, and Some months later we left 
 Rome for New York ; from there we came to this city. 
 We were both very happy over the thought of our home- 
 coming." He stopped an instant, and wearily pushed 
 back his hat. The confession was inevitable, but gall- 
 ing. 
 
 " When I think of what an ass I made of myself that 
 day," he continued, with bitter denunciation, "I could 
 willingly strangle myself. I came home in the afternoon, 
 feeling happier than I had ever expected to feel again 
 happy as few men can feel. I entered the house door, 
 and the first thing I heard was Did I tell you that 
 the speaking voice of the woman I had loved is to me 
 singularly beautiful ? It had a note of tenderness which 
 struck the senses like a caress. At the first sound I was 
 undone not through love, but memory of a frightful 
 delirium. It is hard to believe, Brunton, but harder to 
 endure the consequences, the helplessness of such a tyr- 
 anny." 
 
 He stopped at the corner of a steep grade on Califor- 
 nia Street. They looked down over the city of hills and 
 valleys, lit here and there by lofty electric-lights poised 
 
216 
 
 in mid-air like stars arrested in their fall. The sudden 
 flashing by of cable-cars at almost every alternate street, 
 the faint ringing of bells, broke the peace of night. 
 Brunton leaned against the lamp-post and said nothing, 
 looking with quiet interest into Kenyon's eyes, the flick- 
 ering light playing in wilful shadows over the latter's 
 discomposed face. Two Chinamen passing by, tandem 
 fashion, looked curiously at the two men, and sang out 
 laughing comments to each other. A policeman, leisure- 
 ly strolling past, regarded them suspiciously, but, after a 
 glance, moved on. 
 
 " I walked off away ! It was the only thing for me to 
 do ! 1 could not have faced my wife or the other, in 
 such a disturbed state. The demon of memory was pur- 
 suing me relentlessly, and I could have cursed it for its 
 intrusion. I was endeavoring to rid myself of it for once 
 and for always. I found myself moving toward the 
 wharves. In the noise and hurly-burly I was suddenly 
 accosted by name. It was Joscelyn, the artist. I do 
 not know now what he said to me, nor did I care then. 
 I followed him indifferently, like a dog led by a string, 
 
 and we were soon on board the steamer A , which 
 
 was bound that afternoon for Honolulu, and upon which 
 Joscelyn had taken passage. The sharp breeze made me 
 giddy, and he pressed me to come into his state-room, 
 where he had some whiskey. He knew there were only 
 a few minutes before sailing, but in his excitement at 
 seeing me he threw discretion to the sea. He had 
 some project to suggest to me about a Honolulu ro- 
 mance, for which he would furnish the illustrations and 
 what odds. 
 
 " The distraction and the idea interested me. He had 
 
217 
 
 intended writing me, and now, in his enthusiasm over 
 my unexpected appearance, he forgot the urgency of 
 the moment, had forgotten entirely that I was no longer 
 the ever-ready tourist he had known, and when the or- 
 der was given for visitors to quit the steamer we heard 
 nothing. The whistle had been tooting since our com- 
 ing on board. Joscelyn, perceiving my interest, let the 
 moment slip with all the recklessness of the adventure- 
 lover that he is. He revelled in the consciousness of 
 his bit of shanghaiing, until fifteen minutes later, when 
 the whole miserable business presented itself to my con- 
 sciousness. Brunton " 
 
 " Better stop, Kenyon." 
 
 " No. I can't explain to you the remorse of my 
 careless, insane oversight, the memory of my wife, the 
 consciousness of the shock it would be to her, the hor- 
 ror of my helplessness there in mid-ocean ! If I could 
 describe the days which passed, you would probably 
 scarcely believe me, knowing now that when I married 
 Eleanor Herriott I did not love her. You cannot love 
 two at once. I thought, then, that a man could never 
 love twice. Come, let us be moving." 
 
 They crossed the street and continued eastward. 
 
 " However," he went on, his voice sounding dry and 
 husky, " honor insisted that I should strive to forget the 
 other after my marriage to Eleanor. After it I plunged 
 into a sea of work totally at variance with thoughts of 
 love. I imagined I had grown cold till that wretched 
 affair in Paris. The knowledge, then, that I had duped 
 myself was bitter indeed. But upon my return from 
 Switzerland I was able to look upon her memory with- 
 out a tremor. I regarded her as inaccessible to me as 
 
218 
 
 is a star which may offer light but no warmth. In this 
 state I came back to my wife, and after the storm and 
 stress of my wandering Eleanor appeared to me like a 
 refuge of peace. Whether the change lay in her or my- 
 self, or both of us, I did not question, but I suddenly 
 saw her as I had never seen her before I saw her in- 
 dividuality ; she was no longer to me merely the pretty 
 girl with whom I happened to be travelling, whether I 
 would or no. She had been obscured before, as a star 
 is by the moon. I suddenly realized her womanliness, 
 which was deeper than I had ever cared to know, 
 and I wanted her forgiveness. I needed her tenderness 
 and kindness, and, to my surprise, she gave all. It 
 was pity, probably, but it was more than I had hoped 
 for. And, presently, I did not want her pity. My one 
 desire became to make her love me. I had her to my- 
 self and I did not despair. But it never became more 
 than the gracious sweetness of a woman who wishes to 
 make herself as true a wife as she was one inevitably. 
 God bless her for the endeavor, at any rate. Brunton ?" 
 
 His hand fell like a weight upon the other's shoulder. 
 
 " Well ?" returned Geoffrey, the old charm Kenyon's 
 personality had always wielded over him breaking down 
 the denunciation of his former attitude. 
 
 ** Nothing." He strode on as if striving to outrun his 
 thoughts and footsteps. " Where was I ? Oh," he added, 
 presently, " you can guess, perhaps, the torment I under- 
 went on board that steamer, going and returning and 
 during the four intervening days, with no means of com- 
 munication to her who I now knew had become all in 
 all to me ! If you can't guess, I have simply wasted 
 time in trying to gain your leniency, not for myself 
 
219 
 
 what do I care what you think of me ? I must have 
 your assistance ! I have lost too much time already. 
 Do you care to help me 2" he demanded, shortly. 
 
 " I want to, yes. But I confess I am a little doubt- 
 ful. I will help you, upon one condition." 
 
 " Name it ! What is your condition, Brunton ?" 
 
 " I am sorry to appear so officious," said Geoffrey, in 
 slow cautiousness, " but, in all conscientiousness, I could 
 not honestly aid you in finding your wife with one doubt 
 in my mind. I want you to go to this other woman ; I 
 want you to speak to her, to hold her hand. After that, 
 if you find yourself as you now believe yourself to be, 
 I shall move heaven and earth to aid you in your search. 
 You have told me a peculiar history, and the case needs 
 peculiar procedure, peculiar certitude." 
 
 " Then," said Kenyon, moving away with a bitter 
 laugh, " I shall go at once. The task is easy ! I shall 
 not be more than an hour at the utmost, after which 
 where can I meet you ?" 
 
 " At my room at the Club," he answered, giv- 
 ing him the address. " Bon voyage!" He turned away, 
 and Kenyon walked southward down the hill. 
 
 Brunton took out a cigar and prepared to smoke. 
 " It's a strange thing," he mused, as he strolled on, " to 
 see a man, otherwise wanting in everything approaching 
 formal religion, turn to the Power in moments of moral 
 excitement as naturally as children turn to their mothers 
 in time of need. Is it his faith at bottom, or only spirit- 
 ual ecstasy? Is it an acknowledgment of a God beyond 
 our knowledge, or only exclamations taking the name as- 
 sociated through habit with that into which one's rea- 
 son may not enter ? It is an impressive sign of human 
 
220 
 
 impotence, whatever its origin ! Ah, a good cigar is 
 more satisfying than the clearest elucidation of the 
 most vexed problem !" His head was clouded in the 
 fragrant fumes. He walked on in a disturbed mood. 
 He drew out his watch presently and saw that it was 
 half -past eight. "Poor wretch!" he apostrophized. 
 " He's had his fling with sportive fate, I take it, if he 
 does not overdo it to-night. Peculiar nature ; this busi- 
 ness of love-making to the exclusion of weightier inter- 
 ests is, I suppose, the province of all artists, as well as 
 of women and novelists. But where can that girl be ? 
 She is capable of any folly when in a fury. She always 
 did give Constance more concern than all the others to- 
 gether. Too much like that charming, fiery husband of 
 hers. I hope she has not but no, I won't think of it. 
 If we only find her it will be a pretty efficacious cure for 
 both of them. I wonder who the woman was whom he 
 imagined he loved. The genuine article does not give 
 under so easily, no matter what considerations you bring 
 to bear against it. Honor and circumstance ! Twaddle ! 
 When you Jove, you love, and no change can kill it, 
 though it may alter or perhaps die of starvation, non- 
 fulfilment even of sight. But, after all, this ghost which 
 he thinks so securely buried may rise again. I hope 
 not. If it should, Kenyon won't meet me to-night." 
 
 He sauntered on for fifteen or twenty minutes, striv- 
 ing to imagine Eleanor Kenyon's possible whereabouts, 
 the uncomfortable gravity of the question seeming to 
 grow greater as he dwelt upon it. " By Heaven !" he 
 thought, abruptly, " what a benighted fool I am ! I have 
 forgotten all about Constance ! If any one can help us 
 now, she can. Yet how can I approach her with this 
 
221 
 
 bewildering intelligence ? Another agony for her ?" 
 His brows were knit hard, his lips pressed close. 
 " Well," he decided, finally, " I dare not keep it from 
 her. It seems decreed that she shall suffer all that is to 
 be suffered ! We need her more intimate knowledge." 
 He looked at his watch. " I can make it," he considered. 
 " It won't take many minutes to prepare her she is not 
 a fainting woman and perhaps she can think of some- 
 thing yet to-night. If Kenyon gets to the club before me 
 he can wait." Geoffrey gave a shrill whistle to the pass- 
 ing car, ran toward it, sprang on as it slightly slackened, 
 and the next instant was gliding on to Constance. 
 
 Ten minutes later he walked up the steps of the Her- 
 riotts' home, in a somewhat slow manner. He was con- 
 sidering how best to break the news of Kenyon's return 
 without too severely shocking her belief in Eleanor's 
 having been with him throughout her silence. But two 
 days had elapsed since Nan's passing ? and Constance's 
 quiet grief had impressed all who cared for her with the 
 pathetic knowledge that the going of the little blind 
 child had left a wide void which no tenderness could 
 fill. Constance had never possessed a confidant for her 
 inner life ; but this frail child, like the blind fish of the 
 cave, had been furnished with an organism so sensitive 
 that she had perceived presences quite imperceptible to 
 any light-illumined eye. It was this unchildish, spiritual 
 insight to which, though wordless, Constance had grown 
 accustomed, and for the loss of which there could be no 
 compensation. Her going had left a coldness which 
 would some day add strongly to Constance Herriott's 
 stern reticence. Geoffrey rang the bell with evident reluc- 
 tance. 
 
222 
 
 " Is Miss Herriott in, Kate ?" he asked of the maid 
 who admitted him. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Brunton, but " . Her speech hesitated, and 
 she moved away as Brunton, having laid down his hat, 
 turned toward the drawing-room. He discerned Con- 
 stance standing upon the threshold, and another form 
 dimly visible in the brightly -lighted apartment be- 
 yond. 
 
 He carne forward in some uncertainty. " Good-even- 
 ing, Constance," he said, pressing her hand, keenly con- 
 scious of the unwonted silence of her greeting. " Did 
 I " The sentence broke upon his lips as he confront- 
 ed Kenyon. His face turned red. He stood without 
 speaking for several seconds, his stunned senses slow- 
 ly rearranging themselves to meet this new, hitherto 
 unexpected point of view. Kenyon met his glance with 
 simple dignity. 
 
 Constance looked from one to the other in obvious 
 surprise. " I thought you knew that Hall was here," 
 she murmured, moving nearer. Brunton turned upon 
 her quickly. 
 
 " Ye yes," he stammered, " certainly." Then, observ- 
 ing her great pallor, he wheeled up a chair for her. " Sit 
 down," he said, quietly. " I'm afraid Kenyon has un- 
 nerved you. I should have come I came to prepare 
 you." As she seated herself he turned to Kenyon, 
 who was still standing. u Were you going ?" he asked, 
 abruptly. 
 
 " I was going to meet you, as we had agreed," replied 
 Kenyon, steadily. 
 
 " Yes, but having met here we can find no better 
 place to discuss the trouble. Constance will aid us more 
 
223 
 
 than any one that is, if the arrangement would be 
 agreeable to you." 
 
 " Quite." He leaned against the piano in an attitude 
 of one to whom the leisurely comfort of a chair would 
 have been an impossibility. 
 
 Brunton seated himself at some distance from Con- 
 stance. She sat between them, the woman to whose 
 strength all had recourse in weakness or adversity, silent 
 now and nerveless, her black gown deepening the pallor 
 of her countenance. An unbroken stillness hung heavi- 
 ly over them. 
 
 " This is frightful, Geoffrey !" she exclaimed, at last, in 
 the low tone which accompanies the moment immediate- 
 ly succeeding stupefaction. Her hands clasped the chair 
 arms in a perceptible strain ; her eyes sought Brunton's 
 in distress. 
 
 "It may look worse than it is," he assured her, as 
 brightly as he could. " What we must do now is to try 
 to recall every place where there is a possibility of her 
 having flown. Can you think of any such place ?" 
 
 " Of none where she would have gone alone. Griff 
 will move entirely off the track." 
 
 "Griff?" questioned Kenyon. 
 
 She turned to him and explained that they had tele- 
 graphed to Griff, telling him of their departure, but sup- 
 posing that they were together, and asking him, Griff, 
 to endeavor to learn their whereabouts, as the silence had 
 made them apprehensive. " He wrote that he would 
 move westward at once," she continued, " and make in- 
 quiries at all corners which he thought might suggest 
 themselves to you as good stepping-off places. Of course 
 he has been looking for two." 
 
224 
 
 " Yes," he answered, his slender hand, hanging over 
 the piano, clinching itself unconsciously. "You said 
 she wrote she was coming to me," he added. " Do you 
 think she had any intimation of my whereabouts ?" 
 
 " I do not know I do not think so. But if she had 
 had, do you think she would have started for you to 
 Honolulu?" 
 
 " No. I don't think she would have gone anywhere 
 for me." 
 
 " Why not?" asked Brunton, sharply. 
 
 " Why should she ?" returned Kenyon. 
 
 " Hall means," explained Constance, carefully, " that 
 she would not have been likely to go to him, even had 
 she known where he was, without his having sent for 
 her." Whatever shadow of the past may have rested 
 upon this meeting between husband and sister, it was 
 swallowed up lost in the calamity of the moment. 
 
 "Is that it?" demanded Brunton. 
 
 " Partly. But let the question drop. She had no in- 
 tention of coming to me." 
 
 " Why did you ask, then, whether she had any knowl- 
 edge of your location ?" 
 
 For folly ! What's the good of this cross-examina- 
 tion ? Let us get to something definite. I don't think 
 she has gone far." 
 
 " Why not ?" questioned Brunton again. 
 
 " I don't know why, but that is my conviction." 
 
 "It certainly is definite. However, we must employ 
 a detective. Her movements must be traced from the 
 moment of her leaving this house." 
 
 " We must find the maids," suggested Constance. 
 " We might advertise for them." 
 
225 
 
 " Yes," acquiesced Brunton, jotting down a word or 
 two in a little note -book. "Do you remember their 
 names ?" 
 
 " Marie and Gretchen ." 
 
 'Good. They may furnish us with a clew. Were 
 you thinking of any particular place, Kenyon, when you 
 made that assertion of her nearness a moment ago ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " What prompted the idea ?" 
 
 Eleanor." 
 
 The curt answer silenced them curiously. Kenyon 
 suddenly began to walk the floor. Constance shuddered 
 violently. 
 
 "What was that thought?" asked Brunton, conscious 
 of her every movement. 
 
 "Geoffrey suppose she has done away with her- 
 self !" 
 
 Kenyon wheeled around at the low, terror-laden words, 
 his eyes blazing in his white face. " Hush !" he com- 
 manded, gruffly. " How dare you fancy such a thing?" 
 
 " From my knowledge of her." 
 
 " Knowledge ? What knowledge ?" 
 
 " Of her reckless, violent temper." 
 
 He gazed at her in astonishment. " She had no tem- 
 per," he asserted, roughly. " She was quite passionless." 
 
 They returned his gaze with wonder. But the next 
 moment Constance remembered the marked change she 
 herself had noted in the girl's manner the day of her ar- 
 rival, also Eleanor's confession of her constant straining 
 and feigning to attain this effect. 
 
 " Your words are astounding," she heard Brunton 
 saying. " Eleanor Herriott had a remarkably stormy 
 
 15 
 
226 
 
 nature. The characteristic was so pronounced that any 
 one interested in her was often fearful for her.'* 
 
 " You are mad," returned Kenyon, with a wretched 
 laugh, as he turned away and continued his monotonous 
 tread. He paused as he passed Constance. " Is that 
 true ?" he asked, indistinctly. 
 
 " Yes," she murmured, burying her face from his tort- 
 ured gaze. 
 
 " Well, she had utterly changed, then," he asserted, 
 in a thick undertone. " And Have you any old 
 papers ?" 
 
 " Papers ?" 
 
 " Journals of the past few weeks." 
 
 " I think so. I will look." 
 
 As she moved from the room Brunton came over to 
 Kenyon. " I'm inexpressibly sorry for you," he said, in 
 honest sincerity. " But don't despair ; I am convinced 
 we'll find her. She has been gone only three weeks, you 
 know." 
 
 Kenyon stared at him dumbly. Constance returned 
 shortly witli a number of old Chronicles, which Ken- 
 yon received from her with a word of thanks. He seated 
 himself and began scanning them carefully, the only 
 sound in the room being the crackling of the newspaper 
 as he turned the pages. The other two watched him 
 silently, wondering what his painful, unexplained search 
 among the daily annals could portend. His colorless 
 lips were compressed in a hard line, his eyes ran up and 
 down the columns with startling rapidity and minute in- 
 telligence. Sometimes they saw him turn back to reread 
 an article. Once a slight sound escaped him, and his 
 face turned deathly as he read, but the next minute he 
 
227 
 
 had flung the paper from him, with the muttered explana- 
 tion, " Thank God !" 
 
 Constance presently felt his dark eyes resting question- 
 ingly upon her. " Little Nan ?" he asked, in sad gen- 
 tleness. 
 
 She bent her head acquiescently. 
 
 " I did not know. Forgive me," he entreated, " for 
 bringing my trouble to you." 
 
 " It is my trouble, too, Hall," she said, with the brave 
 fortitude of custom. 
 
 And later, when they rose to go, he raised her hand 
 to his lips. " It is good not to be alone in time of loss 
 or strife," he said, simply, in the expressionless tone 
 which expressed so much to her. 
 
 She gathered together the papers he had read with 
 such avidity. As she picked up the one he had thrown 
 from him she moved with it under the chandelier. It 
 was still folded where he had read to the page contain- 
 ing the important local news of the day. She remarked 
 nothing at a glance that could have arrested his atten- 
 tion : there was a reported interview with a celebrated 
 visiting explorer, an account of a murder trial, some 
 theatrical notes, a She had discovered the cause of 
 his inexplicable disturbance. It was simply the sad, every- 
 day story of the suicide of an unknown, beautiful young 
 girl, who had taken into her own hands the only means 
 of stilling despair and disgrace. As Constance reached 
 the closing paragraph the suffocating weight upon her 
 breath lifted. The "fair unfortunate" had been "flaxen- 
 haired and blue-eyed." 
 
 " Thank God !" she, too, murmured, as though repeat- 
 ing Kenyon's unexplained train of thought. And with 
 
228 
 
 . convic- 
 
 the explanation came the inexplicable but settled 
 tion that self-destruction would not prove the cause of 
 Eleanor's disappearance. As long as Kenyon lived, life 
 would hold jealous dominion of her battling soul. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 HAD the earth suddenly opened in some obscure cor- 
 ner to ingulf her, Eleanor Kenyon could not have more 
 completely vanished from detection. 
 
 Every known medium and device at the command of 
 man was summoned to the assistance of the baffling task, 
 except that of open newspaper advertising. That her 
 disappearance had been deliberately planned by herself 
 there was no mistaking. They discovered that on the 
 morning of her going she had visited the bank and 
 drawn two thousand dollars in paper-money, a fact which 
 should have gone far toward assuring them that she 
 was materially protected. Yet the knowledge that she 
 had had so large a sum upon her person gave play to 
 grave fears to those whose love was following her in 
 every possible danger of life. Griff, slowly moving west- 
 ward, was quietly conducting the search from the east 
 end of the continent; but Kenyon, still strongly imbued 
 with the belief of her proximity, gave all his attention 
 to California and, most indefatigably, the city environs. 
 
 This dominant idea, which held him in an absolute 
 tyranny, soon began to communicate itself to Constance, 
 Brunton, and Briggs, the detective. Griff's messages 
 were scarcely noted. There were days when they would 
 lose all sight and knowledge of Kenyon, only to see him 
 return from some wild dash into the interior, worn and 
 haggard, but never utterly discouraged, explaining that 
 
230 
 
 he had remembered her mentioning such or such a place 
 once in converse. Far from discountenancing these fruit- 
 less wanderings, Constance herself had several times 
 bidden Grace and Marjorie good-bye in the morning, and 
 gone off to odd byways which they had passed and com- 
 mented upon in the olden summers. There was no stone 
 too heavy or inconvenient for their turning. But the 
 weeks dragged into months, and no echo came to all 
 their crying into the silent woods. 
 
 People were out of town. The Herriotts' movements 
 were less constrained in consequence, and Kenyon's fit- 
 ful appearances in the city without his wife remained 
 unremarked at least, to Constance. The atmosphere 
 of the Herriott house was sadly changed. Only little 
 Marjorie, singing in childish innocence and unconcern 
 through the almost silent house, now and then recalled 
 the ghost of its former sunshine and gayety. She had 
 never lost her baby infatuation for Kenyon, and when he 
 would come to them, weary, tormented, and dejected, 
 the child's arms about his neck, her pretty caresses and 
 crooning prattle soothed him as nothing else could. The 
 sense of kinship is never more comforting or strongly 
 felt than in time of trouble ; Kenyon yielded to it in- 
 sensibly. Between him and Constance rested the silent 
 understanding of each other with which the memory 
 of the past endowed them. It had been the forerun- 
 ner of his quiet deference to her now in every circum- 
 stance. She liked to have him come to them so natural- 
 ly when he was in town, and despite her own fears the 
 sight of his changed face, which bore no trace of its 
 former youth in its haggard leanness, filled her with 
 a longing tenderness and pity for his torturing self- 
 
231 
 
 reproach, and she strove, as best she could, to make 
 him forget his misery. Occasionally he would make a 
 strenuous effort and talk to them in a quiet, interesting 
 strain for a while ; he would even smile when Grace re- 
 peated some merry anecdote or tale of the day's con- 
 cerns which she had carefully fostered for his distrac- 
 tion. But more often he would sit for an hour, quite 
 silent, with Marjorie on his knee, and then, suddenly, 
 with a muttered word of apology, put her down, rise, 
 and leave the house. And upon Constance's face the 
 haunting corrosion of care began to leave deep traces. 
 
 As the months slipped away she would have caught at 
 their fleeting skirts and implored them to pause, to go 
 more slowly toward the catastrophe of utter hopeless- 
 ness. But August was merging into September, people 
 were returning to town, and the privacy of their strange 
 trouble was no longer assured to them. 
 
 Kenyon had come in one afternoon, and Constance 
 had just entered the drawing-room, when Mrs. Ferris 
 was announced. She had been away since Nan's death, 
 and had come to pay her visit of condolence. She 
 entered clad in the stereotyped solemnity of consola- 
 tion. She seated herself as though the very chairs must 
 be approached softly. She gazed in deep-eyed solici- 
 tude upon the object of her sympathy when the latter 
 assured her that she was quite well. 
 
 "But you do not look it," mourned Mrs. Ferris. 
 " Have you been ill, Mr. Kenyon ?" With impartial in- 
 terest her head turned toward him. 
 
 "No," answered Kenyon, courteously, "though I be- 
 lieve I have lost flesh." 
 
 " And your sweet wife is she with you ?" 
 
232 
 
 " She is still away." 
 
 " That must be loneliness." 
 
 " Yes, but it is inevitable." 
 
 "Circumstance is not always yielding, I suppose, even 
 to a man of your pursuits. And yet, despite our crosses, 
 we live and breathe." It was then time to sigh, and 
 Mrs. Ferris led the charge valiantly. The carte de visile 
 of her emotions had the condolence corner turned down ; 
 and her well-trained muscles responded, like good sol- 
 diers, to the call. 
 
 " Yes," she continued, with a slow shake of the head, 
 " in moments of grief nature seems almost vulgar when 
 it proceeds unconcernedly upon its wonted round of di- 
 gestion and assimilation. But, as I have often said, it is 
 by divine provision and intervention that we are being 
 looked after at such a time when we might grow indif- 
 ferent. Providence is never off on sick-leave, or drying 
 its eyes, or on an excursion for amusement only. Prov- 
 idence is a hard worker. Well, well, as the Masonic 
 service has it, 'So mote it be.' You have heard the 
 funeral services, Miss Herriott ?" 
 
 " Once." 
 
 " Impressive, are they not ? Of course, it seems heart- 
 less to consider such things while a man is alive just as 
 it shocks one when one's husband mentions his life- 
 insurance policy ; but I have insisted upon Mr. Ferris's 
 giving his consent to being buried by the order, with all 
 the ceremonies. It must be a consolation to know that 
 there will be no unseemly haste at one's final lowering. 
 Don't you agree with me ?" 
 
 " What will it matter after we are dead ?" 
 
 " Nothing to the dead ; but think how comforting the 
 
233 
 
 idea of solemnity and prestige will appear to the one 
 about to die. It gives him a proper estimate of his im- 
 portance to the world, and is such an adequate expression 
 of the mourners' voiceless grief." 
 
 " Do you not think we can mourn as deeply without 
 the outward signs ?" asked Constance, gently. " Grief is 
 not expressed in ceremonies or the dye of the wool of 
 one's gown." 
 
 " Black makes you look quite pale, or is it that white 
 shawl, Miss Herriott ? The house must seem very large 
 to you now." A profound sigh punctuated this senti- 
 ment. 
 
 "Yes," replied Constance. She could not speak of 
 her little folded-away flower to this woman, with her re- 
 marks fitted to the occasion like umbrellas unfurled in 
 time of rain. 
 
 "Eleanor gone," proceeded the ferret -eyed one, 
 "Edith away. By-the-bye, what do you hear from her? 
 Excellent reports, I have understood. Is she quite well, 
 and does she like it ? I suppose Grace misses her, though 
 I have heard that Grace, too, shows signs of flitting." 
 
 " Grace ?" repeated Constance. " Oh no, I need Grace 
 yet, you know." 
 
 " But, my dear woman, it is just when one needs a 
 young girl most that she seems to be needed more per- 
 emptorily by some one else. And, seriously," with an in- 
 advertent sigh, " you should not complain if she wants 
 to leave you. We bring up a girl with the sole purpose 
 of making her pleasing in the eyes of some possible bid- 
 der." 
 
 Constance smiled, when Mrs. Ferris had left, over the 
 suggestion that Grace could be the subject of gossip. 
 
234 
 
 She knew that young Glynn was a frequent visitor and 
 attentive friend of the girl, and her smile abruptly 
 changed to one of serious thought. She explained her 
 visitor's innuendo to Kenyon in the confidential way into 
 which they had fallen since a common adversity had 
 thrown them together. 
 
 " Don't be disturbed about Grace," he said. " She 
 will never marry any but a man with whom her happi- 
 ness will be assured." 
 
 Constance was called away just then, and Kenyon, 
 walking over to the window, was startled to see Caroll 
 Glynn standing with Grace at the foot of the steps, tak- 
 ing an apparently lingering leave of her. His honest, 
 intelligent face was alive with interest while she spoke, 
 and Kenyon hastily drew back. 
 
 A moment later she came in softly humming. She 
 had some spicy, dark red pinks in her hand, and a faint 
 reflection of their color was in her cheeks. Kenyon's 
 eyes rested upon her with quiet satisfaction. 
 
 "You here, Hall?" she exclaimed, coming up to him 
 with the girlish, artistic delight she always felt at sight 
 of his fine head and presence. "Let me put one of 
 these pinks in your button-hole they are so fragrant. 
 Caroll Glynn gave them to me just now. I met him 
 down-town and he rode home with me. Do you know 
 him ?" 
 
 " I met him on the street once with Brunton. He is 
 studying law, is he not?" 
 
 Grace had laid down the flowers and was drawing off 
 her gloves, as she seated herself on the broad window- 
 sill. The late afternoon sun blazed upon the glass and 
 shot flashes of gold from her fair hair. His quiet, sym- 
 
235 
 
 pathetic voice touched her with a swift desire to make a 
 confidant of this grave, saddened man, who regarded her 
 with such tender interest. 
 
 " He has gone into partnership with Steele & Grat- 
 tan. Mr. Steele is losing his health and has gone to 
 Europe, and, as he was the brains of the firm, Mr. Grat- 
 tan has taken Caroll as a coming substitute. Geoffrey 
 says he is recognized now as very clever. Geoffrey says 
 a good deal of it is clap-trap, but that it is going to make 
 itself felt. Geoffrey likes him immensely. He says he 
 is so manly." She spoke in swift, low enthusiasm, 
 wishing to make clear that even such a valued authority 
 as Geoffrey Brunton approved of the man who had found 
 favor in her eyes. 
 
 " I like his face," Kenyon admitted. " It is what one 
 might call trustable." 
 
 "And that is a great deal, is it not?" She sat with 
 downcast eyes, fingering the pinks upon the table, an 
 eager, listening flush upon her cheek. 
 
 " It is the best recommendation a man can bring," he 
 replied, forcibly. " I like Brunton's valuations of men 
 and things. He goes straight to the core, and is never 
 deceived by an attractive covering or frame. A great 
 many worthless books come bound in morocco." 
 
 " Oh," laughed Grace, the color deepening upon her 
 face, " Caroll is not very pretty to look at. But a man 
 does not need that advantage." 
 
 " Then it is not by the long nail on his little finger 
 that he has won your affectionate regard ?" he observed, 
 with a half-smile. 
 
 " No. I require something less brittle. I am not so 
 silly! If I if I had a daughter," she went on, in 
 
236 
 
 earnest bravery, " I would rather give her to the plainest 
 farmer living who had an honest, trustworthy heart than 
 to the most polished courtier whose convictions might 
 change with the season's fashions. I am woman enough 
 to know that there are moments when it is good to feel 
 that a strong-hearted, true man is always, always at hand 
 to strengthen and uphold one." The young face looked 
 toward him for approval. 
 
 " God help the woman who does not find such a 
 prop," he returned, in bitter intensity. " You arc right, 
 Grace. Find your right sort of man 4 You can let all 
 the rest go." 
 
 He relapsed into silence after that and began pacing 
 the floor. The bitterness of self - reproach obliterated 
 the ardent, sweet-faced girl from his interest. Only the 
 memory of the woman who had failed to gain this sim- 
 ple need filled mind and soul with exquisite remorse 
 and longing, and made all else seem as shadows. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE warm yellow haze of late October hung in the 
 noon air as Kenyon made his way toward Brunton's 
 office. He had been out of town for a week, and his 
 jaded appearance testified to the uselessness of his ex- 
 cursion. Discouragement had at last overtaken him 
 bodily. She was either dead or lost to him forever. 
 Not the flicker of a smile came to his heavy eyes as 
 Joscelyn accosted him with his usual gay exuberance 
 just before the Mills Building. 
 
 " Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned ?" he 
 exclaimed, grasping his hand. " Either the grave or 
 gravity has got the better of you. Why so downcast? 
 Why, man, you should be ablaze with stars and medals. 
 I suppose you've just got back to sport your accumu- 
 lated laurels. I congratulate you, old fellow. Never 
 thought you'd let yourself out as you have in the book 
 it has caused a small flurry. You wear your honors 
 too modestly. Come to luncheon with me, and- we'll 
 christen your latest in becoming fashion." 
 
 "Thanks no. I don't understand your allusion in 
 the least. Whq,t " 
 
 " Fudge ! Don't pretend indifference for glory to a 
 man in the same boat with yourself. Ah, here comes 
 Sire Coulter. He looks sentimentally this way I'm off. 
 See you later when less besieged." 
 
 As he moved along, a benignant-faced old club-man 
 
238 
 
 came up close beside Kenyon, and intercepted his very 
 evident desire to get away. 
 
 " Hold on," he said. He stood leaning on his cane 
 held behind him, and shook his head at him sadly. 
 "You dog of a tourist," he slowly growled, with wag- 
 gish gravity and twinkling eyes, " you juggler of emo- 
 tions, you time your entrance like a sensational Mephis- 
 topheles. You send your literary fireworks before you ; 
 then, as they shoot up, appear on the scene to get the 
 full benefit of the * Ah !' Your heroine has made the 
 men curious, and the women indignant. They want to 
 know how you know, and I say to them, ' Cherchez la 
 feinine," 1 or, better, sa femme in this instance the tra- 
 ditional influence still bearing fruit. We can't growl at 
 your acquisition 1 No silent geniuses nowadays every 
 man with a horn worth blowing blows it ; and as to 
 your last perpetration, you're only showing what you 
 paid for it took a wife, God help you, it took a wife !" 
 He had been laughingly edging away as he finished, and 
 before Kenyon could voice his annoyed confusion, the 
 garrulous veteran, with a jaunty salutation of mockery, 
 had turned the corner. 
 
 Kenyon moved on with an inward shrug of apathy 
 over the unintelligible purport of their words. He was 
 relieved to find Brunton in and disengaged for the hour. 
 The lawyer looked up as he entered, but made no in- 
 quiries, his eye interpreting the harassed countenance at 
 a glance. 
 
 " Sit down," he said, pulling up a chair. 
 
 " Any mail ?" asked Kenyon, seating himself and lay- 
 ing his hat on the table. He pushed his hair from his 
 brow as though it molested him. Brunton leaned back 
 
239 
 
 to a chest of small drawers, pulled out one, and, extract- 
 ing several letters, handed them to him. He resumed 
 his own correspondence, while his companion quickly 
 disposed of his communications. 
 
 " What in thunder do they all mean ?" 
 
 Brunton glanced up in gentle surprise at the exclama- 
 tion of exasperation. Kenyon held a letter in his hand ; 
 his brows were knit in heavy anger. 
 
 " What's the trouble ?" questioned Brunton, in his 
 usual unhurried manner. 
 
 "No trouble. But here both Griff and Scott have 
 been writing page after page of jargon about a book 
 which I never wrote ! Two men on the street surprised 
 me just now with a similar peculiar tirade ! Can you 
 explain ?" 
 
 " I suppose they refer to your newest book." 
 
 " Which book ?" 
 
 " I don't remember the name ; Constance can tell you. 
 It was she who spoke to me of it. I have not seen it. 
 She said it had been sent her from the publishers. She 
 supposed you had directed them to send her a copy." 
 
 " Some error. I have not written a line since my re- 
 turn from New York! A new edition, perhaps !" 
 
 "Can't say. But Constance seemed unusually im- 
 pressed with it." 
 
 " Strange ! Well," he decided, rising wearily, " I'll 
 go out to see her and investigate the piracy. Er any 
 news?" 
 
 " Nothing worth discussing. Briggs was in a day or 
 two ago for a photograph. Constance had none of her 
 taken later than six years ago, when she was seventeen. 
 It is quite inadequate for his purpose, I am afraid, but 
 
240 
 
 the best we could give. I don't suppose you have any- 
 thing more like her ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Kenyon ; " Scott asked for a water-color 
 of her before we left, and I had this done from it." He 
 drew out his watch, opened the under lid, and passed it 
 to Brunton. The latter took it, holding it closely to his 
 eyes for inspection. It was Eleanor's pictured head 
 burned into the gold of the watch-case ; but Brunton had 
 never seen her with just that thoughtful look of woman- 
 hood in her eyes, nor the gentle musing upon her lips 
 the face seemed unfamiliar to him. 
 
 " Yes," he said, without further comment, in his cus- 
 tomary undemonstrative fashion, returning it to its owner. 
 But as Kenyon's hand touched it, he drew it back. " I 
 suppose this is a good likeness ?" he suggested. 
 
 " Perfect !" 
 
 "Well um-m had you not better leave it for 
 Briggs?" 
 
 Kenyon hesitated. " Perhaps," he acquiesced, finally. 
 As Brunton separated the fob and handed it to him, he 
 added, " I am going to resort to the newspapers to-mor- 
 row. It is my last throw. Some casual reader may help 
 us." 
 
 "I wouldn't do that, Kenyon. When she returns, the 
 knowledge of the publicity will hurt her mercilessly." 
 
 " When she returns ! Good heavens, Brunton, haven't 
 you got over that insanity yet ? I have given in. Do 
 you think / would court this notoriety for her if I were 
 not pushed to the wall ? It's a wretched means, but a 
 desperate hope." 
 
 "At least be discreet, Kenyon; consult Constance 
 about it." 
 
241 
 
 " I intend to. Ask Briggs to be circumspect, and 
 careful with that picture, will you ? Good-bye." 
 
 He met Constance on the door-step. " You are going 
 out," he said, shaking her hand in the quiet greeting 
 which characterized their meetings in those days. " Do 
 not go back," he rejoined, hastily, as she moved to re- 
 turn with him, " I shall come again this evening." 
 
 " You are ill, Hall, or have heard something." 
 
 " Oh no; there is nothing to- be heard. I have given 
 it up, Constance." 
 
 " Don't do that," she implored. 
 
 They spoke so low their colloquy was almost whis- 
 pered ; no one passing and noting their unmoved exteri- 
 ors would have guessed at the desperate nature of their 
 converse. 
 
 " There is one more chance but I will discuss it with 
 you this evening. Don't let me detain you. Is Marjorie 
 in?" 
 
 " No ; she is at school." 
 
 "N'importe ! I'll walk down the street with you. Oh, 
 by-the-way, have you that new book of mine, of which 
 one hears so much ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I have just finished it. It is I cannot speak 
 of it." 
 
 He looked at her speculatively as they descended the 
 steps and stopped shortly. His curiosity was beginning 
 to be piqued. " I should like to see it. No, don't turn 
 back ; I can find it if you will tell me where it is." 
 
 ** Well " she considered " it is on the small table 
 near the east window, in the library. Are you going in ?" 
 She never combated an unimportant point of etiquette, 
 letting inclination decide the question at its ease. 
 
 16 
 
242 
 
 % " Yes. Good-afternoon." She turned away as he lifted 
 his hat and rang the bell. 
 
 The servants knew him now as one of the family, and 
 he went into the library with a word of explanation. He 
 found the book where she had indicated, and a line of 
 amusement showed about his eyes as he recognized the 
 usual dark binding of his previously published writings, 
 and read his name under the unfamiliar title. He opened 
 at the title-page, glanced through the list of his works, 
 and turned to the next fly-leaf. "A Message to If. K." 
 he read on it. " I have been inditing to an unknown 
 friend," he mused, with a faint smile. " Or II. K. ? 
 Ah ! my own initials." He turned to the opening chap- 
 ter. The sentences had the evasive, familiar property of 
 an echo. He seated himself in the deep chair near the 
 window and began to read. 
 
 A singular stillness fell upon and about him. Mar- 
 jorie returned from school, and, hearing he was within, 
 rushed to him. He put his hand upon her cnrls, and in 
 a low tone bade her leave him. The child went out, 
 hushed by the indescribable tranquillity of his presence. 
 Hour after hour passed, but no one disturbed the ab- 
 sorbed reader. Evening stole in softly, and Constance 
 came to light the gas, her inherent delicacy hesitating 
 even over this slight intrusion. She paused in her ad- 
 vance into the room as she perceived the tall figure stand- 
 ing by the window ; his hand rested high up on the cas- 
 ing, his head was sunk in his arm. 
 
 " Hall !" she ventured, gently. 
 
 He turned at the sound. His face was deathly white 
 in its stillness. He came toward her at once. 
 
 " That is not my book, Constance." 
 
243 
 
 She started at the profound calm of his tone, which 
 seemed to come from a distance, as though disembodied, 
 and which she knew was his expression of powerful 
 emotiveness. 
 
 " But it is your novel, Hall," she protested, in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " No, it is Eleanor's ! I gave the manuscript to her 
 long ago. She has made the story her own. A word 
 a whole passage here and there the cold framework 
 filled out; she has given it what it wholly lacked a 
 soul ! Her soul !" 
 
 Constance regarded him mutely. " Then," she breathed 
 at last, " that woman is Eleanor." 
 
 "In her entirety. Not the woman she appeared to 
 us, but the woman she was ! The woman she wished to 
 be the real, the ideal. We are all these three in one. 
 She is there!" 
 
 " We did not know her, Hall." 
 
 " Whom do we know ?" The color rushed over his 
 face, and, receding, left him almost ghastly. " I have 
 read her message," he murmured. 
 
 She mused a moment. " The message of her love ?" 
 she whispered, as though violating something sacred, the 
 color staining her own pure face. " I have known it for 
 a long time." 
 
 He took her hand almost blindly, and bent his brow 
 upon it. Then he turned toward the door. 
 
 " Where are you going ?" she asked. 
 
 "To get her address." 
 
 " Her address ?" 
 
 " From the publishers. The clew is found." 
 
 She turned giddy at the unexpected turn to which his 
 
244 
 
 words pointed, and caught at the door-lintel as she fol- 
 lowed him into the hall. 
 
 " I shall wire to New York," he explained, the words 
 dancing wildly upon one another's heels. 
 
 " Wear your hat, please," she laughed, tremulously, 
 handing it to him. He laughed shortly as he took it 
 from her, and was out of the door. "Address it from 
 here," she called after him, " and " But he was gone. 
 
 It was fully five hours after Kenyon's return to the 
 house that the answer came to his despatch : 
 
 Have wired correspondent must wait permission before 
 giving address. 
 
 And Kenyon replied : 
 Do not delay delay fatal. 
 
 Brunton had come in at about nine o'clock. 
 
 " Any news ?" he asked, struck by their curious aspect 
 of restrained excitement. And after Constance had ex- 
 plained, he silently shook Kenyon's hand, and did not 
 complain when the latter passed the following hours in 
 pacing the floor. 
 
 " It was probably all premeditated," he decided. "Ev- 
 erything is dovetailed to a nicety." 
 
 But noon of the next day came before the feverishly- 
 awaited telegram arrived. Kenyon opened the envelope 
 with rigid fingers. The information was to the point : 
 
 Mrs. Hall Kenyon care Mrs. Johnson B Isl- 
 and Alameda County California. 
 
 He would have staggered had not Constance, who had 
 been reading over his shoulder, laid her firm hand heavily 
 against him. 
 
245 
 
 " Where is that, Geoffrey ?" she asked of Brunton, who, 
 in his anxiety, had just come in. She took the paper 
 from Kenyon's nerveless fingers and passed it to him. 
 
 " B Island ?" read Brunton. " Never heard of it." 
 
 " Nor I, and I have lived here all my life." 
 
 They regarded each other with stern faces. 
 
 " Nonsense," said Kenyon, in indistinct impatience ; 
 " there must be such a place. How would they know ? 
 It will be easily located. I'll find out down at the wharf 
 and telephone you the answer." 
 
 " I'll go with you," said Brunton. 
 
 A half-hour later the following dialogue vibrated over 
 the wires : 
 
 " Is that you, Constance ?" 
 
 " Yes. Is it all right ?" 
 
 "All right. It is connected with the mainland by 
 bridges. I am going on the half-past one boat. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 She rang him up sharply. 
 
 "Hall!" 
 
 " Yes !" 
 
 " Listen to me. Be reasonable. Let me go. I will 
 send for you at once if all is well." 
 
 "Are you mad ? How can you demand such a thing ?" 
 
 " You may make her ill. We know nothing of her 
 condition. The shock of seeing you might kill her. Be 
 patient and considerate, Hall." 
 
 " I cannot." 
 
 "You must." 
 
 "No." 
 
 She turned away with clouded eyes. The next minute 
 the little bell summoned her peremptorily. 
 
246 
 
 " Constance !" 
 
 " Yes !" 
 
 " You may go. Take the 1.30 boat, and drive over 
 from Alameda." 
 " Thank you. All right." 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 YET when she reached the deck she saw Kenyon's un- 
 mistakable form leaning against the railing. His hat was 
 pulled down over his eyes, but he saw her approaching, 
 and came forward at once to meet her. 
 
 " You are incorrigible, Hall," she murmured, reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 "No; but your demand was unreasonable. I tried, 
 but could not stay away. I will not be impetuous, I 
 promise I will wait till you call me. You can't expect 
 any more." 
 
 " Well," she sighed, as she seated herself. 
 
 Just as the boat moved away Brunton emerged from 
 the cabin. He started at sight of Kenyon. " I thought 
 you would be alone," he explained, apologetically. " Ken- 
 yon said you were going over first. I thought I might 
 possibly be of some assistance in procuring a vehicle at 
 Alameda." 
 
 She smiled her thanks, having learned that he pre- 
 ferred such quiet acceptance of anything he might wish 
 to do for her. They spoke very little as they steamed 
 over the sunlit bay. Kenyon's jaw seemed locked ; he 
 stood the entire distance, looking out upon the horizon. 
 They boarded the Alameda train still in this strange 
 speechlessness. G-eoffrey secured a carriage for them at 
 the station. 
 
 " Come with us," begged Constance, in an aside. 
 " We don't know where or to what we are going." 
 
248 
 
 So the three sat within when the horses headed east- 
 ward. Over the autumn-decked country they sped, the 
 horses making good time, the occupants quite insensible 
 to the glowing Indian -summer about them. The pace 
 slackened. They crossed the ramshackle bridges. Pres- 
 ently Constance looked out upon a green island, with its 
 long sandy beach, the name of which had never reached 
 her hearing. The least known of our possessions are 
 often those nearest home. Few of us know the sound 
 of our own voices. But the beauty of the waving feath- 
 ery asparagus - plant, rising knee-high, with its bright 
 scarlet berries, transforming the island into a sea of un- 
 dulating, tender green, was quite lost upon her. Great 
 shadows encircled her eyes, her face was weary, but she 
 gave no further sign of her excessive agitation. The 
 driver paused to make some inquiries, and soon struck 
 into the road leading northward. They passed, one after 
 another, the quaint farm-houses, many of them showing 
 traces of great age in their weather-beaten frames, and, 
 anon, they came to a stand-still. 
 
 The driver got down and opened the door. " This is 
 the Johnson farm-house," he announced. 
 
 She looked toward Kenyon in sudden dependence. 
 " I will walk up to the door with you," he assured her, 
 steadily, through pale lips. He alighted, and assisted 
 her with a firm hand. 
 
 " Courage !" called Brunton, softly, after them. 
 
 As they walked up the short mignonette -bordered 
 walk they perceived a white-haired, sweet-faced old lady 
 sunning herself on the porch, in a great, cane-bottomed 
 rocking-chair. 
 
 She arose as they drew near, and Constance watched 
 
249 
 
 the chair swinging slowly back and forth till it grew 
 quite still before she took a step in advance of Kenyon. 
 The old lady looked with surprise at the evident discom- 
 posure of this stately young woman. 
 
 "Are you Mrs. Johnson ?" finally came the question. 
 
 " That is my name," was the cheerful response. 
 
 " Have you does Mrs. Hall Kenyon live with you ?" 
 
 " Eh ?" 
 
 " Does Mrs. Hall Kenyon live with you ?" 
 
 " Not as I know of, my dear." 
 
 Constance turned a perturbed look upon Kenyon, and 
 he came to her side. 
 
 " Perhaps," he said, in slow courtesy, which, added to 
 the extreme pallor of his handsome face, impressed her 
 singularly "perhaps you do not know her by that name. 
 She is a slight young woman, with brown hair and gray 
 eyes." 
 
 The old lady's face flushed prettily. " Yes," she nod- 
 ded ; " she's in-doors." 
 
 " I am her sister," said Constance. " Is is she well?" 
 
 " Yes, she's well now." 
 
 " You mean " 
 
 "Never mind, dearie. It was after all the writing; but 
 Mother Johnson and Dr. Bronson pulled her through. 
 Brain-trouble, he called it; heart-trouble, I called it." 
 
 "Will," she turned her back upon Kenyon "will 
 you tell her I have come ? Say, * Constance is here,' 
 but do not mention any other. Tell her gently, 
 please." 
 
 As she moved into the house Constance turned to 
 Kenyon. 
 
 " Hush !" he commanded. 
 
250 
 
 Neither spoke further. Mrs. Johnson came pattering 
 out about five" minutes later with a bright smile of 
 welcome invitation. " She's been expecting you," she 
 chirruped. " You can go. It's the third room to the 
 right. But be quiet ; she's not used to noise yet." 
 
 Constance walked in, and turned in the direction indi- 
 cated. She stood for a moment before the door, then 
 moved the knob and entered. She stepped into a flood 
 of mellow sunlight. 
 
 " Constance !" she heard Eleanor cry softly. 
 
 Constance moved toward her with outheld arms. She 
 sank upon her knees before her, and laid her arms about 
 her. 
 
 " My child !" she said. 
 
 And presently the tender mother-arms of the older 
 sister fell apart, and she looked deep into Eleanor's face 
 as she knelt before her. A veil of strange peace seemed 
 to enshroud and shimmer about her, her eyes looked out 
 in pleading humility from the marble pallor of her face, 
 her bright hair, slightly loosened, detracting from its 
 fragile delicacy. 
 
 "It is the woman-look the sorrow-look," thought 
 Constance, as though answering the mystery of the beau- 
 tiful young face. And then she met the sad eyes fixed 
 beseechingly upon her. 
 
 " Oh, Constance," she cried, brokenly, as her sister 
 rose and seated herself in a chair, " I had to do it ! I 
 had to do it !" 
 
 " All these long months ?" chided the gentle voice. 
 
 " Yes," she returned, with intensity. " All these long 
 months. I did it to save him." 
 
 " Ah, but you almost wrecked him." 
 
251 
 
 " I know ; that was what I wanted I wanted him to 
 suffer. It was the only caustic that could cure." Con- 
 stance gazed at her pale earnestness, scarcely compre- 
 hending. 
 
 " See," she went on ; " he was not the only victim of 
 this thoughtless freak of his. I am not a patient woman, 
 and in my first frenzy I decided to show him that he had 
 taught me a game at which two could play. Then you 
 stepped in with your tender reasoning, and I hesitated 
 over the possible scandal it might create. But afterwards 
 reason gave me another point of view. This recurrence 
 had to be stopped, and I was the only one to save him 
 I, in my love for him. So I hurt him, willingly though 
 painedly. To shock him almost to death was his only 
 salvation from such a violent disorder. I wanted to live 
 a normal, peaceful life, like other women. I knew it was 
 possible, for I knew he loved me ! 
 
 " To tell you would have been folly ; you would have 
 soon told him too soon, in your compassion. I could 
 not consider you. We I never did. To me, * Con- 
 stance ' means * endurance.' I knew beforehand of 
 your forgiveness, love." She rose, almost tottered over 
 to Constance, and, sinking upon the low cassock before 
 her, leaned her arms upon her knees. "And as for his," 
 she murmured, with " starry eyes," " I did not fear ; I 
 had my day-dream: the book our book." And Con- 
 stance, looking at her, ceased to chide. 
 
 " How did you know of this unheard-of place ?" she 
 asked, instead. 
 
 " I had read a description of it once. I remembered 
 my surprise over its existence. I thought, even then, it 
 would prove a good hiding-place for one seeking soli- 
 
252 
 
 tude. It recurred to me as in a flash that night. I came 
 straight to it and found Mrs. Johnson." 
 
 Her head drooped till it rested upon Constance's 
 knees. " Constance," she whispered, " has he read it 
 the book ?" 
 
 " Yes. Tell me about that, Eleanor. It is so wonder- 
 fully intimate, and yet can that woman be Eleanor 
 Kenyon ?" 
 
 " I think so. You were surprised, perhaps ; but why 
 should you have been ?" She paused, as though her 
 thought had plunged into profound depths. 
 
 " Go on," urged Constance. " Tell me all about it." 
 
 " Do you mean what led me to do it ? I had always 
 intended to make use of it some time, but not as I have 
 done. It was only the common story of a woman's 
 picking up a thread and weaving a romance out of it. I 
 thought to use it some day as a medium of confession. 
 Day-dreaming is the occupation of only hungry souls, 
 not of the truly satisfied. I used to pore over it as one 
 does over a loved possession ; it was so splendid, yet so 
 hard. I wanted to make it less artistic, more human ! I 
 began to annotate ; from annotating I came to strike out 
 here, to add there ; and finally finally, Constance, in my 
 extremity, I found the way I wrote between the lines ! 
 I wrote my heart out. I have written there what few 
 women would care to reveal ; but it is written, not 
 spoken. It was easy persuading his publishers to the 
 secrecy, because they had read the first chapters before 
 he ever came to San Francisco. They thought my re- 
 quest some little wifely surprise. 
 
 " Sometimes, after 1 knew he would read it, I have 
 hidden my face at the memory of the revelation, but in 
 
253 
 
 stronger moments I was glad." There was a faint pause. 
 Then, "Does he forgive me, Constance?" she whispered, 
 almost inaudibly. 
 
 " He loves you," came the quiet rejoinder. 
 
 " Help me to keep him," she entreated, with sudden 
 fear. 
 
 " You do not need me now," returned Constance, ris- 
 ing, and looking down at her. " You have him and the 
 future !" 
 
 Eleanor looked toward her, listening. In the shadowy 
 room the stately figure rose like a dim column, distant 
 and alone. Her voice, dim too, carried a sense of some- 
 thing lonely and apart. 
 
 She stooped abruptly and kissed her. " Good-bye," 
 she said, lightly. 
 
 " You are not going !" cried Eleanor, catching at her 
 gown in bewilderment. 
 
 "In another minute you will forget all about me 
 when some one else comes in. Now then, let me go, 
 dear." 
 
 " Constance !" 
 
 "Yes, he is here waiting. Why should you be 
 afraid ? Sit there so. Come, let me go." 
 
 Two minutes later Kenyon entered the room. 
 
 Brunton had gone, Mrs. Johnson told Constance ; he 
 had hailed a wagon bound for Alameda, and left the car- 
 riage for the others. She stood for a while talking to 
 the good woman, and then, with a message to those with- 
 in, went out at the gate. 
 
 A sense of tranquil peace was upon her. She seemed 
 scarcely to feel the motion of carriage or train as she 
 
254 
 
 was borne homeward. On the boat she sat in the sweet 
 evening air as if soothed by gentle Ariels. The strain 
 came from the harpist as from some distant sphere. 
 
 When she reached home Marjorie and Grace came 
 bounding out to meet her, and she had much to tell them. 
 
 " Are you tired, Constance ?" asked Grace, as she 
 paused once. 
 
 " No," she answered, in surprise. " Why ?" 
 
 " You speak so slowly as though you were dreaming." 
 
 " Yes ?" she returned. 
 
 Later old Mr. Glynn came in to borrow Grace. His 
 wife wanted Constance to lend her to them for the night. 
 Grace hesitated, divided between two loves. But Con- 
 stance told her to go, and presently she was alone with 
 the child Marjorie. She went up-stairs with her, linger- 
 ing oy^er the task of putting her to bed, the child prat- 
 tling, prattling as usual, till she dropped off to sleep. 
 And the house was quite still and Constance was alone. 
 
 In the darkened room she went over and sat down by 
 the window. A fair young moon hung upon the spire 
 of the church, as though it loved it and belonged to it. 
 It seemed to glow to-night with an unfamiliar glory, and 
 to look in upon her with unrecognizing, alien eyes, as 
 though in its darkened quarters lay a secret too deep 
 and sacred even for Constance's reading. Yet she and 
 the moon had long been friends. They had often kept 
 vigil together. " It is the contrast," she thought, with a 
 cold, icy feeling, and she could not stay the tears patter- 
 ing slowly down upon the unresponsive window-sill. 
 
 The singular thought enveloped her that some one, 
 velvet-shod, had softly closed a door upon her and left 
 her alone in space ; that at the other side were voices 
 
255 
 
 that she knew, voices that laughed and sang, and made 
 merry, and moved ever farther away from her ; and ever 
 with the voices of youth and gladness came one like a 
 wind sighing in accompaniment, " Never mind, oh, Con- 
 stance, never mind !" but even that fainted in distance. 
 And as the dream voices floated into silence, a slow, as- 
 sured ring of the bell took up the sound like an echo. 
 
 " Geoffrey's ring," she thought, and she went down to 
 meet him. 
 
 " As inquisitive as ever," he said, as she came in. " I 
 want to know all about it." 
 
 " You mean of Eleanor, of course," she said, with a 
 faint smile, as they seated themselves. " She has changed 
 somewhat." 
 
 " Revised for the better, I hope." 
 
 " As he is," she returned, simply, and then, without 
 further parley, she told him Eleanor's story. He made 
 no comment when she finished. 
 
 " Well ?" she said. 
 
 " You have been crying," he responded, with sharp 
 irrelevance. 
 
 " Don't, please," she faltered, drawing in a deep-lying 
 sob. 
 
 " Are you cold, that you shudder so ? See, your fire 
 is going out ; there goes the last flame, Constance." 
 
 " Let it go," she said, looking into the white ashes. 
 " There are many bright, warm things we must let go 
 from us without a word or a staying hand. Only ashes, 
 the memory of the fire, remain with us." 
 
 " You speak sadly," he said, with some pain. " Is 
 there anything you regret to-night ?" 
 
 " To-night, Geoffrey ? Is not my Eleanor the happiest 
 
256 
 
 woman in the world to-night?" She looked above and 
 beyond him, a pale content resting upon her counte- 
 nance. Brunton, his head sunk in his hand, watched her 
 silently. " What should I regret ?" she went on, quietly. 
 " There is Eleanor, happy with her beloved husband ; 
 Grace is with the Glynns, absorbed in bright visions of 
 the future ; Edith is making us proud of her with her 
 brilliant records ; Marjorie is safe and warm and well just 
 within call, and yes, my bird is gone. But God knows 
 I could not help that, Geoffrey !" She ended her ac- 
 counting with a sharp cry. 
 
 " Hush, Constance ; who could doubt it? Who would 
 question you ?" 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 " You were lonesome," he said, bluntly. 
 
 " Perhaps. Mr. Glynn borrowed Grace, and Marjorie 
 fell asleep, and there is no one else." 
 
 " No. And pretty soon you will give Grace ' for 
 keeps,' as Marjorie says, to the Glynns, and there will 
 be many evenings when Marjorie will be in bed, and 
 there will be left but a lonely, companionless woman. Is 
 it right, Constance ?" 
 
 " Right ? But how can it be otherwise ?" 
 
 " How ? You know how. Come, be reasonable. I 
 we will not speak of love. Let us be practical ; that is 
 the way you like to look at things, I know. Well, then, 
 here are you and I, a quiet man and woman, who need 
 each other. I need you, Constance ; you need me you 
 have often needed me and now, if only for the sake of 
 having some one to talk to when the evenings are long, 
 you need me doubly. Come, dear, why should you re- 
 sist?" 
 
257 
 
 " You forget my vow, Geoffrey." 
 
 " No. I remember it distinctly. You said you would 
 never leave the children. Well, the children have ab- 
 solved you by leaving you themselves, each in turn. Of 
 course Edith will return to you, but she will be a wom- 
 an ; and there is Marjorie. But will you tell me, Great- 
 heart, that you will not always find time and love enough 
 for that one mite, no matter what the new life might ask 
 of you ? Be practical, Constance." A pale smile lit up 
 his face while he spoke as to a child. 
 
 She brushed a hair from her forehead with a nervous 
 gesture. "Will you tell me why you have never plead- 
 ed in court ?" she asked, with a fleeting smile. 
 
 " Because I have never had a case in which I was so 
 personally interested." 
 
 " Geoffrey, dear, why will you persist in making me 
 hurt you so ! You could not take from me or divide my 
 responsibility. Ah, Geoffrey my mother's eyes they 
 will not let me !" 
 
 " Do you mean that you think your mother loved you 
 less than her other children ?" 
 
 " I did not say that," she answered, sharply, her face 
 turning deadly pale. 
 
 " You imply it, then, by wishing to uphold a vow 
 which is no longer tenable in the eyes of any one who 
 loves you. Have you been harboring that cruel accusa- 
 tion against her all these years ?" 
 
 " Be still, Geoffrey," she commanded, imperiously. 
 
 " No," he returned, sternly, " I will not be still. I 
 love you too dearly to allow you to make yourself miser- 
 able with such a false belief. Did she not trust you? 
 Why, Constance, these others were as nothing to her 
 
 IT 
 
258 
 
 next the light in which she held you. Do you think if 
 she could speak to you she would not plead with me ? 
 Do you think she would not say, * Surely, Constance, 
 now you can let Geoffrey take care of you ?' " He arose 
 as though to control himself. " Of course," he contin- 
 ued, with a short laugh, " if you could not tolerate me 
 I have been talking like an idiot. But I won't believe 
 you don't care for me, or that I could not make you 
 happy, and I suppose I'll talk that way to the end of 
 the chapter whenever I get the chance. I'll worry you 
 into it yet, if I can. But there ! You are pale and tired, 
 and I have talked enough." 
 
 He took her hand in both his, and looked long into 
 her troubled eyes. "Good -night," he said, tenderly. 
 " Don't rise. Think it over to-night no, don't think. 
 Sleep. You have thought too much already. Dream 
 over it, love, and try to make a happy dream for both 
 of us. Good-night, Constance." 
 
 " Good - night," she answered, lingeringly. "Good- 
 night, Geoffrey." 
 
 THE END 
 
BY MAEY E. WILKINS. 
 
 PEMBROKE. A Novel. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, 
 Ornamental, $1 50. 
 
 JANE FIELD. A Novel. Illustrated. 16rao, Cloth, 
 
 Ornamental, $1 25. 
 
 YOUNQ LUCRETIA, and Other Stories. Illustrated. 
 
 Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. 
 A NEW ENGLAND NUN, and Other Stories. 16mo, 
 
 Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. 
 A HUMBLE KOMANCE, and Other Stories. 16mo, 
 
 Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. 
 GILES COREY, YEOMAN. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, 
 
 Ornamental, 50 cents. 
 
 We have long admired Miss Wilkins as one of the most pow- 
 erful, original, and profound writers of America; but we are 
 bound to say that "Pembroke" is entitled to a higher distinc- 
 tion than the critics have awarded to Miss Wilkins's earlier 
 productions. As a picture of New England life and character, 
 as a story of such surpassing interest that he who begins is 
 compelled to finish it, as a work of art without a fault or a de- 
 ficiency, we cannot see how it could possibly be improved. N. 
 Y. Sun. 
 
 The simplicity, purity, and quaintness of these stories set 
 them apart in a niche of distinction where they have no rivals. 
 Literary World, Boston. 
 
 Nowhere are there to be found such faithful, delicately drawn, 
 sympathetic, tenderly humorous pictures. N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 The charm of Miss Wilkins's stories is in her intimate ac- 
 quaintance and comprehension of humble life, and the sweet 
 human interest she feels and makes her readers partake of, in 
 the simple, common, homely people she draws. Springfield 
 Republican. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 4SP" The above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by 
 the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or 
 Mexico, on receipt of the price. 
 
BY CONSTANCE F. WOOLSOK 
 
 HORACE CHASE. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25. 
 JUPITER LIGHTS. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25. 
 EAST ANGELS. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25. 
 ANNE. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25. 
 FOR THE MAJOR. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. 
 CASTLE NOWHERE. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. 
 RODMAN THE KEEPER. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. 
 
 There is a certain bright cheerfulness in Miss Woolson's writing 
 which invests all her characters with lovable qualities. Jewish Advo- 
 cate, N. Y. 
 
 Miss Woolsou is among our few successful writers of interesting 
 magazine stories, and her skill and power are perceptible in the de- 
 lineation of her heroines no less than in the suggestive pictures of 
 local life. Jewish Messenger, N. Y. 
 
 Constance Fenimore Woolson may easily become the novelist lau- 
 reate. Boston Globe. 
 
 Miss Woolson has a graceful fancy, a ready wit, a polished style, 
 and conspicuous dramatic power; while her skill in the development 
 of a story is very remarkable London Life. 
 
 Miss Woolson never once follows the beaten track of the orthodox 
 novelist, but strikes a new and richly-loaded vein which, so far, is all 
 her own ; and thus we feel, on reading one of her works, a fresh sen- 
 sation, and we put down the book with a sigh to think our pleasant 
 task of reading it is finished. The author's lines must have fallen to 
 her in very pleasant places; or she has, perhaps, within herself the 
 wealth of womanly love and tenderness she pours so freely into all 
 she writes. Such books as hers do much to elevate the moral tone of 
 the day a quality sadly wanting in novels of the time. Whitehall 
 Review, London. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 Jglf*' The above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent T>y 
 the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States-, 
 Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.